


Missed Connections

by evelle90



Series: endless knight [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Autopsies, Body Horror, Corruption, Detective Noir, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gotham City Police Department, Inappropriate Humor, Medical Examination, Medical Trauma, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28458597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelle90/pseuds/evelle90
Summary: No one is listening. No one is looking.How come no one seems to see what you do?Is it because you're youngest medical examiner at the OCME Gotham? Is it because you're female? Is it because you're from a small town in the midwest? To the overworked, hardened medical examiners and detectives in Gotham you must look like the doe-eyed, idiotic protagonist of a Hallmark movie. So how are you supposed to convince them to look into the...unusualdeaths that keep making an appearance on your table?--NOTE:This is the second fic in a three fic series, but can be read alone. The MC in this is different than the MC in the first and third.
Relationships: Batman/Reader, Bruce Wayne/Reader
Series: endless knight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081139
Comments: 130
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _what is stronger  
>  than the human heart  
> which shatters over and over  
> and still lives_
> 
> _\- Rupi Kaur_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> autopsy description  
> toxic benevolent sexism  
> use of medical abbreviations to an obnoxious degree

_It is the responsibility of the medical examiner to tell the last story a person needs to tell._

This is what your advisor told you on the first day of your forensic pathology fellowship and it’s what goes through your head in cases like this one. The cases that puzzle you, the cases that make your stomach feel like maggots are gnawing a hole into it. 

The decedent is a woman. She’s young, only a year older than you, and she was found dead in her bed by her cellmate in an Arkham holding cell. Other than a puckered pink scar on the skin behind her chin and the freckles that dust her nose and shoulders, her skin is blemish free and smooth as porcelain. There’s no sign of track marks, no bruising around her neck, she doesn’t even have bumps on her knees or elbows that are commonly acquired in childhood from falling off bikes or scooters. You can’t see or feel any swelling in her abdomen and note no hepatomegaly or splenomegaly - swelling of liver or spleen. 

For a moment you gaze at the round cherubic face of the woman on your table. The inside border of her small, heart-shaped lips have the blue hypoxic hue that all decedents do. What would she tell you if she could talk? 

_What is your story, Dr. Jones?_

“I’m ready with the scalpel when you are, doctor.” Your tech today is Jed, a young pre-med student. Jed’s appearance and personality is generic and unmemorable, a stock photo of a person, but he is an efficient and thorough worker. 

“Pictures taken?” 

When he nods, you put on your face shield and reach across the table to take the scalpel from him. Jed has drawn on the Y for you with faint dotted lines. The two arms extending out right beneath Dr. Jones’ breasts and up to her shoulder joints. 

You’re not sure if he does this with the other medical examiners in the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of Gotham (or OCME Gotham for short), but you decide not to take offense. First, because you still like the lines. They give you something to focus on. When you’re following lines you can pretend you’re just connecting the dots to make a picture instead of opening a body. Second, because you are the newest and most inexperienced ME in the office and you, truthfully, probably still need the lines. 

“Saw?” he asks. 

“Saw.” You concur. While handing him the scalpel you crook your neck awkwardly to scratch an itch on your ear with the shoulder of the light blue polyethylene disposable gown you wear over your scrubs. Scratching an itch with soiled gloves is a mistake you only need to make once. 

After five years of training plus eight months on the job, the weight of the bone saw in your palm is as familiar as the hand of a loved one. You don’t even need to look at it to turn it on and feel it come to life in your grip. It’s been years since you’ve shivered at the way the vibrations travel through your arm when meeting the resistance of the bone or recoiled at the crack of the breastplate being forced open. 

As soon as you get a look inside of Dr. Jones’ thoracic cavity, you are pretty sure you know what her cause of death is. Black-maroon, semi-congealed blood surrounds her healthy pink, deflated lungs in clumps, like a gelatinous packing peanuts. 

Before you hold your hand out for the scalpel, you take a step back and allow Jed to take a picture. This is one of the reasons why you like working with Jed, some techs get annoyed by your by-the-book methods of doing an autopsy, but he seems to be as naturally thorough as you. 

“Do you think it’s another one?” He asks as you slice the soft tissue between the cartilaginous rings on the left primary bronchi, detaching the lung. 

“It sure looks like it from here, doesn’t it?” 

He takes the lung from you, keeping his eyes fixated on the sac that holds the heart until he turns away to weigh the organ. 

“What are the odds?” he huffs over his shoulder. 

“I don’t know. Pretty low.” 

The temperature of a dead body used to be deeply unsettling to you. Now, you barely noticed as you slide some cold, gooey blood off of the fibrous tissue that makes up the outside of the pericardium with your gloved fingers. 

The heart is like a present wrapped in three layers of tissue and you systematically cut and fold back each layer one at a time, working slowly to make sure you don’t lacerate the actual heart with your scalpel in the process. 

“ _Gross inspection of pericardium. All three layers appear healthy with minimal to no inflammation_ ,” you press your chin down and mumble into the small recorder attached to the front of your gown. 

You remember the first time you saw a human heart on a field trip in middle school. It’d shocked you how small it was. How could something so vital for survival be no larger than your two fists put together? How could a muscle of this size generate enough force to supply your whole body with blood? 

It takes more swiping and clearing of congealed blood before you locate the rupture. “ _Type A aortic dissection, right near the root of the ascending aorta._ ” 

Hearing your words, Jed abandons the lung on the aluminum dissecting tray and walks over to the body, leaning over and peering down at the hole that has torn through the largest artery in the body.

“Another sudden cardiac death?” He asks. 

You nod, stepping back to look at the body opened on your table. 

“Did you see anything about previous heart problems in her file?”

“No, but I just skimmed it.” Jed is taking pictures of Sadie Jones’ heart with the official autopsy camera. 

“Me too.” You admit. 

The OCME Gotham receives an average of nine thousand bodies a year. That’s seven hundred and fifty bodies a month, or twenty five bodies a day. Because of recent budget cuts, you’re severely understaffed for a city this size, with only twenty two medical examiners and fifty mortuary technicians. This means everyone is either feeling overworked, underappreciated, and bitter, or they’ve given up and do the bare minimum. 

A wave of exhaustion and frustration crashes over you and you ball your hands into fists to resist an urge to slide them down your face. Assuming that you’re able to rule out all other causes, Dr. Jones will be the third woman in less than two months on your table who will have SCD (sudden cardiac death) by aortic dissection listed as her cause of death. And if her case is anything like the others, she’ll have no signs of any pre-existing heart condition, no congenital abnormalities, no elastic tissue defects, and no external chest trauma. 

The rest of the autopsy passes without a hitch. Her liver and kidneys are beautiful specimens. They don’t even show the usual wear and tear common of a woman her age from the occasional overindulgence of alcohol or over-the-counter pain medications. Her lungs are clear and pristine, and her blood vessels damage free. Preliminary toxicology comes back clean and from the state of her organs you’d be shocked if the more in-depth reports would come back with anything suspicious.

For a moment, you gaze at the crown of her head. Then you snap off your gloves, pull off your gown and shield, and head straight to Ron’s office. 

.  
.  
.

Dr. Ronald Major has the kind of face that a caricature artist would love. The way the end of his bulbous nose peeks out over the top of his big salt and pepper moustache and the bushy eyebrows that dominate his heavy brow brings to mind a Yosemite Sam or maybe a Captain Hook. 

When Ron (as he prefers his staff to call him) looks up from his paperwork to see you walking in, his already weary face slumps. It’s not that the chief medical examiner is unfriendly, he’s simply under a lot of pressure. The man puts the CME in the OCME Gotham and as such bears the responsibility for the aforementioned nine thousand bodies a year. To say he’s bone-tired would be an understatement. 

“Make it quick, Smallville. The charity ball is tonight and I’ve got more work to do than a sex worker on dime night.” He says by way of greeting. 

Even though he can be a grouchy bastard, and his manner of speaking can be… well, offensive to say the least, his constant use of inappropriate and sometimes confusing idioms reminds you of your family back home. 

The top of his desk is hidden by a small mountain range of paperwork and you place your laptop on the peak of one of the stacks. You turn the computer at an angle and lean over so you can both see the file you have pulled up. 

After several seconds of scrolling through what you’ve assembled on Sadie Jones, he grumbles, “What am I looking at here? It seems to me like an open and shut case.”

“A perfectly healthy young woman with no reported history of heart issues, no _physical_ evidence of heart issues, dies of a freak aortic dissection _two days_ before she’s supposed to testify against the Falcone family? _This_ is what you’d call an ‘open and shut’ case?” 

“Did you find anything else on the body? Any marks to suggest foul play?” 

The question is rhetorical. He read the summary of your findings and knows as well as you do that you didn’t, but you answer anyway, “No. But this is the _third_ body on my table like this in less than two months, Ron. Aortic dissection without any previous indication is... extremely rare.” You want to say ‘unheard of’ but know better than that. One of the first lessons you learned in medical school is _nothing_ is ‘unheard of.’ 

“In a city as big as Gotham, the ‘extremely rare’ can seem disproportionately represented, Smallville.” Perhaps he calls you by the name of your hometown to remind you of your humble beginnings in cases such as these, but he’s also used it in an endearing context, so you _try_ not to let it get under your skin. Yet you can feel yourself flush, your confidence starting to waver. 

“Still. Are we just supposed to ignore the fact that she drops dead right before a hearing?” 

“That isn’t our job. We’re not detectives.” 

“Aren’t we though? Isn’t it our job to investigate the cause of death?” 

Ron groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. You feel guilty and can hear your mother’s voice telling you to ‘ _stop being a pain in the ass_ ,’ but then you remember the way Sadie’s strawberry blonde curls gleamed under the fluorescent lights like expensive rose gold. You think back to the full lips and rich chestnut skin of the woman a few weeks back and the perfectly manicured nails, with tiny daisies painted on the thumbs, of the one before her. These women deserve an explanation. 

“Do you _know_ what Dr. Jones did?” 

When you don’t respond he continues, “Sadie Jones assisted a convicted _murderer’s_ escape from Arkham, she helped him kidnap and torture her colleague and friend. In addition, she’s been implicated in unethical research, and extortion.” 

You tilt your chin up stubbornly, “Does it matter? It’s not my job to pass judgement. It’s my job to figure out how they died. If there’s a disease or something more… nefarious out there that’s making people drop dead, it’s our responsibility to alert the public, isn’t it?” 

“We already have enough on our table. The last thing we need is a starry-eyed medical examiner straight out of residency who thinks she can change the world unnecessarily complicating uncomplicated deaths.” 

The flinch at Ron’s words is reflexive, and unfortunately, he sees it. His face softens and you hate that you made yourself look so fragile. 

Not only are you one of only six female medical examiners working in the OCME, but you’re the youngest by almost a decade. To be taken seriously you actively hide your accent, have stopped smiling as much, and have thrown out any colorful clothing. Even after all that, you’re still here, being looked at with those sympathetic ‘ _oh honey_ ’ eyes. 

It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to scream that it makes you want to cry. 

“Listen, Smallville, I know you mean well. I do. But you’re playing in the big leagues now and the quicker you learn to not draw conclusions where there aren’t any, the better. To the rest of the world Gotham looks like a city of villains where every other death is a homicide, but that’s not the case.” 

You have more to say, but you don’t trust yourself not to cry, so you firm your jaw and nod. 

“Atta girl.” Ron pats your hand, making you feel tiny and like a child. 

Before you can leave his office he reminds you about the NYE Charity Ball for GCPD tonight. “Bruce Wayne is supposed to be there, and we need all hands on deck to charm his pants off. We need that money of his.” 

And when you walk back to your desk you wonder if Ron realizes how wrong what he said could be taken. You know he means well, that he wouldn’t ever suggest you use some sort of seduction on Bruce Wayne to get his money. He’s just a man from the good ol’ boy generation who doesn’t understand that if he’s not careful he could get himself into trouble one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have waited to post this since I only decided to change up my whole plan for this series _yesterday_. But I have no restraint. 
> 
> <3 <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s not your job to be likable.  
>  It’s your job to be yourself.   
> Someone will like you anyway. _
> 
> _Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> overbearing problematic smothers, biased fathers, trying to find purpose, important (but perhaps dull) exposition to explain coroners vs. medical examiners

“Tell me you’re not wearin’ black.” 

You glance down at your body, as if you’d forgotten that the only dress you owned for occasions such as this is the Givenchy you’d splurged on after you’d graduated from medical school. And yes, it was black. 

Interpreting your silence, your mother groans and says, “Baby, you’ll never get yourself a man if you’re always dressin’ like one of those girls I see at the mall. The ones who are always lookin’ like they’re dressed for Halloween.” 

You roll your eyes. 

Your mother is a southern belle through and through, from a wealthy Georgia family. She met and fell in love with your father, a Smallville wheat-farmer when she was just nineteen years old and cannot comprehend how a woman can exist without being on a constant mission to, ‘ _Get herself a man_.’ It’s made for some awkward and borderline volatile conversations over the years, especially when your cousin Sheila came to Thanksgiving with her girlfriend. 

On the day you graduated medical school your mother lamented, “I just don’t understand how you could go four whole years in there and come out the otherside without a doctor husband.” You’d tried to point out to her that having a ‘doctor husband’ wouldn’t be quite so impressive now that you were a doctor yourself, but she didn’t take the hint. 

“And don’t you go rollin’ those eyes at me, missy.” 

Pulling the phone from your ear, you double check the camera isn’t on. It’s not. _What the hell?_

“All I’m sayin’ is the colorful flowers attract more honey bees.” 

There’s a fraction of a second where you debate telling her that the honey bees that collect nectar from flowers are all female, but ultimately decide against it. “Mama, it’s nothing like that. Black just goes with everything. It’s more practical.” 

“You think men want practical women? You think _Bruce Wayne_ wants a practical woman?” 

“ _Mama!_ ” 

You shouldn’t be shocked that she _somehow_ found out that the richest bachelor in Gotham would be at the Charity Ball tonight. The woman is like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out any ‘eligible bachelors.’ She has no boundaries, no restraint, and is prone to making herself, and by proxy you, ridiculous. 

“What?” The faux innocence in her voice enrages you. “Ada from down the road did a little snoopin’ on that Facebook and found the guest list. There’s no crime in that. Plus, what do you expect me to do?” She’s now worked herself into being defensive. Next up: guilt trip. “My baby girl moves all the way out to Gotham and I don’t have any idea what she gets up to or who she sees. You don’t have children so you don’t understand what that does to a mama’s heart.” 

This time when you roll your eyes she doesn’t call you out on it. 

You love your mother, you really do. She’s supported you in every extra-curricular you’ve ever done, snuggled into bed with you whenever you woke up with a nightmare, wiped away your tears, and bandaged your scraped knees. But the woman drives you up a wall and has an uncanny ability to press every single one of your buttons. Although you’d never tell her this, she’s one of the main reasons you took a job over one thousand miles away from your hometown. From this distance, you have a little bit more control on the relationship and when you’re reached your limit - as you have now - you can make an excuse to get off the phone. 

“Hey mama, I’ve got to run. I don’t want to be late for the party.” 

“Alright, love you, baby. Remember, men like Mr. Wayne don’t like _practical_ women.” 

You snort, thinking of the tabloid magazine covers you’ve passed by in lines at the grocery store over the years. You can picture the billionaire walking out of clubs with women in sky high platforms and sparkling dresses.

“That, I think, is something we can finally agree on, mama. Mr. Wayne does _not_ like practical women.” 

.  
.  
.

Gotham Opera House is a stunning neoclassical building located in the Upper West Side of the city, a thirty minute ride on the subway from your apartment. 

By the time you are walking into the baroque ballroom inside the Opera House, you’re regretting your decision to wear heels. They’re strappy, uncomfortable things, an impulse purchase that you’ve only worn once before. It was a last minute decision to put them on, along with the dramatic deep-plum, nearly-black lipstick - a passive middle finger to your mother. Knowing that, if she could see you, she’d be clutching her pearls at your interpretation of her suggestion to be less practical. 

There are two things you are trying to avoid upon walking into the Charity Ball: Gawking at the ornate gold embellishments in the vast, luxurious room like an uncultured bumpkin. And appearing as if you’re seeking out conversation with a stranger. 

This leaves you unsure of where to put your eyes, or in which direction to walk and you are relieved when you hear the familiar bellowing laugh of Ron. You follow the sound of his voice across the dancefloor to one of the tables. Once you see who he’s talking to, you regret your decision to home in on him and pivot to go the opposite direction. 

Sadly, you’re too late. He’s seen you. 

“Smallville? Is that you?”

You force a cordial smile on your face before you turn back to your boss and the man he is speaking to - Connor McFaden, the Gotham city coroner. 

A coroner and a medical examiner are not the same thing. A fact that, you’re ashamed to admit, you didn’t know until you were in medical school. A coroner is an elected official who has the power to deem a death worthy of further investigation. They work within the sheriff's department and are not required to have any formal medical education… or any formal education outside of a high school diploma and a two week training course after being elected. 

When you found this out during one of your forensic pathology lectures, you were shocked. You couldn’t believe that such an obviously problematic system could be allowed to exist. You’d asked the professor, ‘If there’s someone working in the police department who has the power to determine which bodies merit further investigation, can’t that facilitate police corruption?’ In short, the answer you received was: yes. In corrupt police departments a coroner is often instrumental in making sure certain bodies don’t make it to the medical examiners. And although you are from a small town, you’re not naive enough to think GCPD is anything but corrupt. 

Gotham’s coroner, Connor McFaden, is a small, fierce, bald man with a textbook Napoleon complex. He has a persistent, burnt orange five o’clock shadow and lashes and brows so pale, they give his eyes the illusion of being beadier than they truly are. 

“Christ, Smallville, I barely recognized you!” Much to your displeasure, Connor has adopted Ron’s nickname for you. The way he smiles at you, showing you all of his teeth, in his black and white tux - he reminds you of a badger. 

“You do clean up nice.” Ron nods in approval. Your skin is crawling under their gaze and once again you are regretting your _impractical_ decisions. 

Ron’s wife Caroline comes to your rescue, whacking her husband upside the head in the endearing way that only couples who’ve been together for decades seem to be able to pull off. 

“Don’t leer at her like a creepy old man, Ronnie!” Caroline hisses at him and then beckons you over to the empty seat beside her, “Come here, darling. Sit with us. Let’s order you a drink.” Though you don’t want to be trapped at a table with Connor McFadden, you don’t really know anyone else at the ball. 

The table fits eight and with your presence, it’s full. There’s Dr. Amin, one of ME’s from work and his partner, plus another couple who are introduced to you as Commissioner Jim Gordon and his wife Barbra. It makes you uneasy that you and Connor are the only two unpaired at the table and because of this, it’s difficult for you to settle in until you take several large sips of the whiskey sour you ordered.

“Doctor,” Connor addresses you his weasley, too-loud voice from across the table, “Ron here was just telling me that you’ve been considerin’ a career change. Whaddya think, Gordon? Would the girl make for a good detective?” 

Your spine stiffens and you look toward your boss, a sensation of agitation and betrayal making your skin prickle and your fingers tingle. You reach out and grab your drink to give them something to do. 

So much for ‘settling in.’ 

Commissioner Gordon, simply shoots McFaden a withering look over his glasses. Gordon clearly wants nothing to do with whatever the coroner is saying and you’re happy at least one other person at the table finds the man ridiculous. Perhaps he got trapped here like you. Why else would a police commissioner be sitting at a table full of medical examiners and the coroner? 

With the smooth burn of the whiskey still warming the back of your throat, you summon the courage to retort, “You have to forgive me, Connor. I was under the impression that it was part of a medical examiner’s job to address concerning... _patterns_ that they notice. But what would I know? I’ve only had nine years of education to prepare me for this. Remind me: where did you go to college again, McFaden?”

In the following silence, he narrows his eyes at you, but instead of warning you off, it just fires you up. 

Understanding that the US education system is an institution that has been set up to cater to privilege, you usually consciously avoid lording it over people. However, you decide to make an exception for Connor. 

“Oh right…,” You smile at him, “You dropped out of college after… remind me, did you make it a full semester?” 

Ron chokes on his drink, coughing into his napkin until his face is as red as a cherry. The whole time, you keep your eyes fixed on the angry little badger in front of you. You refuse to be the first one to look away. This moment is critical in establishing yourself as someone who won’t be walked on by the coroner. Which is why you are so annoyed when Ron distracts you by leaning over and urgently whispering in your ear, “Here he comes. Smile pretty, Smallville, we need to make a good first impression.” 

When you see who he means, it feels like you’ve been punched in the gut. The young billionaire is weaving his way through the tables, looking like… well, a _billion_ bucks in his tuxedo. 

_Smile pretty, Smallville._

Is it possible that Ron knew _exactly_ what he was saying when he told you that you needed to ‘charm Bruce Wayne’s pants off’? Did Ron hire you because of your skills as a medical examiner or did he want a fresh young face to present to potential donors? 

Mr. Wayne approaches the table, patting Commissioner Gordon on the back and leaning down to say something into his ear. Then he flashes a cocky grin at the rest of the table. 

The man has the pretty face of a rich boy raised with all the benefits of perfect nutrition, a lifetime in club sports, and the best healthcare and dentistry money could buy. His mouth is made up of graceful but definite swooping lines, his cheekbones are lofty, his skin is flawless and smooth, and his teeth white and straight.

You can’t stop looking at him, but you don’t see him. Not really. You’re thinking about the conversation you had with your mom, about Ron breaking your trust and talking to McFaden about the deaths you’d been concerned about. 

You’re wondering if anyone has ever taken you seriously, you’re wondering if it mattered what you wore or how you talked or how much education you had. It’s a difficult pill to swallow, the realization that as long as you were in this body, no one would listen, no one would take you seriously, you’d have no authority. 

The table has gone quiet and you register that all eight pairs of eyes are resting expectantly on you. You’re up. _Smile pretty, Smallville._ You don’t know what your face looks like, but you know you couldn’t smile pretty even if you’d wanted to. 

When you meet Bruce Wayne’s gaze, his forehead creases in… what? Concern? Disgust? From what little you know of him, you assume it is the latter. 

“If you’ll excuse me…,” Rising from your seat with ungraceful desperation, your thighs hit the table and jostle it. As you walk away, you hear the murmurs from your table, but you don’t turn around.

Exiting the ballroom, you turn right then proceed through a maze of red carpeted hallways and corridors. Your decisions on which direction to head are arbitrary and you don’t stop until you reach a narrow, darkened staircase. 

You climb halfway up, and once you feel hidden away enough, you sit down and finally release the knot that has been growing in your throat. Like anything growing that is forced down, the sob rips out violently initially, in an effort to rapidly reduce the pressure in your chest. When the first whining noises that come out of you echo back to your ears, you imagine your father’s voice asking you if it is ‘ _that time of the month?_ ’ and almost laugh. Anytime a female had an emotion around your father, this would be his go-to response. Over the years, it’s become a sort of joke, but the message is clear: Women are weak, women lack control. 

Crying alone in an Opera House stairwell, you decide something: you’re going to look for a different job. You aren’t happy at OCME Gotham, you are met with resistance anytime you try to do your job. Other than your elderly neighbor, you haven’t had much time to make any friends here in Gotham, but you have friends from residency with jobs up and down the East Coast. 

You are resolved: You’re going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and tomorrow you are going to find yourself a new job. As if marking the momentous occasion, a short series of pops and bangs rings out from up the stairs. 

With nothing better to do, you decide to investigate. The stairs lead to a metal door that opens to a small utility balcony surrounding the dome of the Opera House. It’s some early fireworks being set off from the surrounding buildings. 

The industrial diamond plate flooring and the skinny, non-decorative railings tell you this balcony isn’t meant for the public. But it provides a breathtaking view of a city you’ve just decided to leave, so you’re determined to have this moment. In spite of the bitter cold biting at your bare arms, neck, and chest, you lean against the railing and gaze out at the vibrant city lights. 

“You found my hiding spot.” 

“ _Jehosaphat!_ ” 

You start so hard that you teeter precariously in your heels and Bruce Wayne moves from the cream-painted sandstone he was leaning against to steady you. He grips both your forearms and you can’t help but notice how warm they are against your goose pimpled flesh. 

“You’re freezing.” He observes, his eyes roving around the swathes of your exposed skin. “Let’s get you inside.” 

All you can do is shake your head since you’re still trying to settle the racing of your heart and your chattering teeth. He furrows his brow and scratches the back of his head, looking down at you like you are a problem he needs to solve. 

You didn’t realize until now how tall Bruce Wayne is. As illogical as it is, his pretty-boy features have distracted you from his size. But at close range, you are forced to appreciate the way he towers over you. 

In this same vein, you discern that his face isn’t quite as ‘pretty’ as you’d thought. From here you can make out that the bridge of his nose has a subtle bend to it, characteristic of one too many breaks. The angle of his jaw is severe, his chin is strong, his brows thick, and his deep indigo eyes are razor-sharp. 

“Fine.” He sighs and then shrugs off his coat, “But put this on.” 

The last thing you want to do, with your already wounded ego, is accept the coat of this man like some feeble damsel in distress. But when he throws it over your shoulders and you feel the warmth from his body that still permeates the fibers, you snuggle into it. 

It smells like him. You’d thought a man like Wayne would smell like an obnoxious, exorbitant, imported cologne, something heady, unfamiliar, and pretentiously herbaceous. But he doesn’t. His scent is subtle and intriguing and clean. Not fresh linen clean or soap clean, but like the air smells right after a rainstorm and like dewy grass and salt and earth. 

“You’re one of the medical examiners, right?” He leans on the railing, putting his forearms against the top bar, surveying the plaza below as if he were watching for anyone up to no good. 

You mirror his movement and, finally in control of your voice, answer, “I am.” 

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” 

Even though he’s not looking at you, he must sense the way you prickle at his question. Because before you can answer, he twists his head to you, a shit-eating grin on his face, “‘ _Jehosaphat’_?” 

“ _Oh no!_ ” You groan, hiding your face in your palms. At least the flush of shame will warm you. “I did say that, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” His chuckle is what gets you laughing at yourself at last. 

How seriously you’ve been taking yourself tonight. It’s always good to step back and see that everything is ridiculous. The shoes your wearing are ridiculous, your mother is ridiculous, Ron is ridiculous, Connor McFaden is ridiculous, this whole Charity Ball is ridiculous. Better to laugh at a situation than to cry. 

“What are you doing out here?” He asks after a moment. 

“Feeling sorry for myself.” There’s no reason for you not to tell the truth, after tonight you don’t anticipate seeing Bruce Wayne ever again. You glance down at his watch and see that it’s about five minutes to midnight, “What about you, Mr. Wayne? Shouldn’t you be spending the New Year dancing the night away with a beautiful woman, sipping glasses of Dom?” 

When his face falls, you worry you’ve hit a nerve. You’d meant to keep up the teasing back-and-forth dynamic he’d started but perhaps you’d taken it too far? 

“I’m just like anyone else, doctor. I enjoy a good self-indulgent sulk from time to time. Plus, it’s the best seat in the house to watch the fireworks.” 

“That’s fair.” 

“Besides,” he turns and walks back over to where he was leaning against the dome before, bending to pick something up, “Why should I sip Dom out of glasses when I could drink from the bottle?” 

He holds up the green glass bottle triumphantly as he strides back over to the railing with you and you cover your mouth with your hand to hide your smile. 

“What do you say, Quince? Want to drown your sorrows in a $200 bottle of champagne with me?” 

“Quince?” You wrinkle your nose as you watch him peel off the foil and pop the cork gracefully in his palm, as if he opened bottles of Dom Perignon every night. 

“You know? Quincy M.E.? The TV show from the 70’s, 80’s about the medical examiner?” 

You shake your head as he takes a long drink from the bottle, “Never heard of it.” 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hands you the bottle. You grasp it carefully, one hand on the neck and another supporting the base, as if it were dynamite. 

“I’ve also never tasted $200 champagne.” You admit and then take a delicate sip. 

“What do you think?” 

“Hmm…,” It bubbles delightfully on your tongue. But then again, so does all champagne. You’re aware of his eyes on you and you pretend to think, then bring the mouth of the bottle to your nose and inhale, “I’m detecting floral notes as well as… are those undertones of stone fruit?” 

He gives you a sideways glance and you sniff with amusement, “I’m joking. It just tastes like regular champagne to me.” You hand the bottle back to him, “Sorry. It’s probably wasted on me.” 

The corners of his mouth tighten and you can tell from the way his eyes shine that he’s holding back a laugh. It makes your insides feel as bubbly as the Dom on your tongue. Perhaps it’s this feeling that drives you to tell him, “Did you know not one, but _two_ people tried to pimp me out to you tonight, Mr. Wayne?” 

“Is that so?” 

When he passes the bottle back to you, you take a hearty sip this time, widening your eyes and nodding at him as you do. “Oh yes,” you cough from the fizzing in your sinuses and your eyes water, “My mom seems to think you’ll make me a wonderful husband and I’m pretty sure my boss thinks that I can convince you, with my feminine wiles, to give the OCME a large donation.” 

“Your mother will be sad to know that I won’t make anyone a good husband. And as for your boss, I didn’t realize that solicitation was one of the responsibilities of a medical examiner.” 

“That’s what I’m saying!” 

You pass the bottle back and forth a few more times in the following silence. It’s not an awkward silence. Just a shared moment of reprieve between two people hidden away on top of the world. When the countdown begins you hear it shouted in the plaza below. 

_Ten!_

Your phone vibrates in the pocket of your dress (never buy a dress without pockets). 

_Nine!_

It’s a text from one of the graveyard mortuary techs, Mari. 

_Eight!_

She says there’s a body. 

_Seven!_

It’s a young woman, late twenties.

 _Six!_

First responders suspect sudden cardiac death. 

_Five!_

There is no reported history of previous heart conditions.

_Four!_

There are no visible signs of trauma. 

_Three!_

No one can get a hold of McFaden, so they brought the body straight to the OCME just in case. 

_Two!_

Bruce Wayne grips your chin and turns your face to his. There’s a question in his eyes. 

_One!_

Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s the romantic rooftop atmosphere. But you answer his question by raising up on your toes and pressing your mouth to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for getting through all the story/character building, I promise (hope) it'll be worth it! 
> 
> I'm also working off the assumption that Gotham is in NJ and Smallville is around Kansas and they are therefore ~1000+ miles from each other. Different sources say different things about the distance from each other.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds._
> 
> _\- Dinos Christianopoulos_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> autopsy, sleepy bitches, nonsense southern sayings

_Cross, over, go under, pull. Cross, over, go under, pull._

Stitching up a body post-mortem is a whole different ball game than stitching up a patient who is alive. Post-mortem needles are stronger and post-mortem thread is thicker than the varieties for specialties that specialize in… well, the living. When a patient is alive, the sutures are made for optimum healing and there are several different types of sutures depending on what and where you’re stitching. When you’re stitching up a patient who is no longer alive, the goal is to keep everything together. Scarring is no longer a concern, so the standard of suture after an autopsy is an inelegant baseball stitch, pulled as tight as a corset. 

This is what you’re doing now on Emily Sakai, at three in the morning, on New Year's Day. 

_Cross, over, go under, pull._

Emily was just twenty six, getting her masters in elementary education at Gotham University. She was found dead in an alley behind the bar she was at with one of her friends. There are no signs of struggle, relatively healthy internal organs, and only mild alcohol intoxication indicated on her preliminary screens. Emily’s death certificate will be the second one in a twenty-four hour time period that you’d filled out as SCD by aortic dissection. 

_Cross, over, go under, pull._

You’re thoroughly bewildered. Your mother would say that you’re, ‘as confused as an Amish electrician.’ 

_What is happening to these women?_

“That’s a good question.” You look up from the body to Mari. Did you say that outloud? “I’m surprised no one has looked into these deaths yet. In my time here, we’ve had a bunch just like this one.” 

Nothing in the OCME Gotham looks like what a medical examiner’s office looks like on television. Instead of a solitary body on a slab, in a dimly lit basement, with a single edison light swinging above, the autopsies take place in a large, warehouse-like room on the first floor. The floors and walls are lined with sterile white linoleum and the ten separate stations in which an ME can do an exam. They are all very well lit with rows and rows of fluorescent lights. The room resembles more of a huge operating theater than the ominous lab of a mad scientist one might imagine. 

There is one thing, rather person, at the OCME that _does_ follow forensic science stereotypes, however, and that is Mari. 

Mari looks the part of someone who works with the dead. She has a head full of raven hair and skin so pale it’s almost translucent. Your mother would definitely describe Mari as a ‘girl who looks dressed for Halloween.’ The only thing that isn’t black that you’ve seen her wear is a silver necklace with a symbol that resembles a cross with a loop at the top. 

“A bunch just like this one?” You repeat. 

_Cross, over, go under, pull._

You have no idea how long Mari has been the regular graveyard mortuary tech here. She’s been here longer than you, but she can’t be more than thirty. 

“A bunch.” She confirms. 

“Have they all been young women?” 

“Most. There has been the occasional man, but for the most part they’re young. None over thirty five.” 

_Cross, over, go under, pull._

“Why did you text me? I’m not the ME on call tonight.” You’re not typically a subscriber to ‘fate,’ but getting her text right after making the decision to leave Gotham feels a bit like fate. 

_Cross, over, go under, pull._

“Oh, you’re not? I must have read the schedule wrong… ,” 

_Cross, over, go under, pull. Cross, over, go under, pull._

“Why _did_ you come?” At night, the OCME is quiet and empty and… less professional. Mari spins on her work stool absentmindedly while you put in the last few stitches to close Emily Sakai up. 

_Because I seem to be the only ME that sees that something weird is going on here. Because I didn’t want to give McFaden the chance to deem this woman’s death not worthy of investigation. Because I don’t care what they say anymore, I’m going to figure this out with or without their help._

“Because I wasn’t doing anything else.” 

“Bullshit.” Mari walks over and helps you slide the woman back onto her body bag. 

Transferring a body is one of the only things that still gives you the willies. Carrying dead weight is something you’ve never quite gotten used to. Fortunately, you don’t have to do it very often. Most of the time there are enough techs in the building to do it without your help. 

“You forget that there’s cameras, doctor. I saw what you were wearing when you came in here and I saw what you got dropped off in.” 

You chew the inside of your lip to keep from smirking. 

When you told him that you needed to go into work, Bruce Wayne insisted on escorting you to the OCME in his town car, making his driver stop to get you coffee and donuts to soak up your buzz. You are surprised at how much you enjoyed your time with the man you had been sure was a vapid, spoiled brat. Be that as it may, you have no expectations in ever seeing him again. Even though your plans to leave Gotham have changed, and even if Bruce Wayne did fancy himself interested in trading out his runway models for forensic pathologists (which you are almost positive he wouldn’t), now is not the time for you to be distracted by men with soft lips and expensive champagne. Not when you’ve just resolved to get to the bottom of what’s causing these deaths. 

“Fine.” You level Mari with a stare after you zip up the bag, “I came because I think something is going on here and I don’t think anyone cares but me.” 

“I do.” Her eyes sparkle. You wonder if Mari wears contacts because you’ve never seen someone with irises so dark that you can’t discern where the pupil starts. 

“Really?” 

She nods. 

“Then can you do me a favor?” 

She nods again. 

“Can you find any SCD cases similar to this one that came in during the past… oh, I don’t know, let’s start with six months?” 

“Gladly.” She salutes before wheeling the body away and toward cold storage. 

“Oh! Mari?” She pauses to look over her shoulder at you, “Don’t tell anyone.” 

When she smiles, you see that she has a dimple. 

.  
.  
.

By the time you are finishing up your notes on Ms. Sakai and unlocking the door to your office, it’s four in the morning. You nudge the door open, eyes still fixed on your laptop open and cradled in your arms. Without looking up, you flip on the lightswitch up with your elbow. 

It isn’t until you are halfway to your desk that you realize that you are not alone in the office. For the second time that night you are startled by a man. At least you _think_ the caped and masked person is a man. The media does refer to him as Bat _man_ after all. 

When you jump and screech from the surprise of seeing him, you drop your laptop and watch in slow motion as it falls to the ground, already dreading the conversation you’ll have to have with Ron to replace it. But then a black-leather-clad hand reaches out and catches it before it hits the floor. 

_Those are some quick reflexes._

“Careful, doctor.” His voice is deep and artificially modulated somehow. He sets the laptop on your desk. 

What is the protocol when one is graced with the presence of a world-famous vigilante? You’re not sure, but you’re confident it’s _not_ what you do. 

The average Gotham citizen would most likely ask for an autograph, or thank him for some amazing feat of strength and/or bravery, or something. What do you do? You roll your eyes. 

Perhaps it’s exhaustion - you _have_ been up for almost twenty-four hours by now. Perhaps it’s an all around distaste for vigilantes. Perhaps you’ve just reached your daily quota of being impressed, or shocked, or scared, or affronted. But for whatever reason, all you can feel toward Batman, after your initial surprise, is irritation. 

“ _Excuuuuuse me_.” You push your way around him to take a seat at your desk. The office is already cramped because you share it with another ME and with his large, armored, caped body taking up space in the room, it’s downright claustrophobic. 

_Just who the **actual** the fuck does this guy think he is? What does he think he’s doing in a place like this at four in the morning? It’s not very professional._

After several seconds of trying to focus on your task at hand, it becomes clear that you’ll need to address the bat in the room if you’re going to get anything done. You turn to face him, “Can I _help_ you?” 

He frowns and you delight in the way he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself for a beat. He clears his throat, “My sources tell me that you might be able to use _my help_.” 

_Ugh._

It takes a solid five seconds of rubbing your eyes before you remember that you’re still wearing makeup from the Charity Ball. You most certainly look like a panda now, but you’re too tired to care. 

“Listen. I’m not in the mood to watch you goin’ round your ass to get to your elbow. Just tell me right up front what you are here for, or get out please.” When your frontal lobe shuts down, you start to talk like your mother. 

The corner of the man’s mouth twitches and tips up ever so slightly. _Does Batman smile?_

“I’m here about the sudden cardiac deaths, I’m here to help you figure out what’s going on.” 

You arch an eyebrow at him, “Was it Mari? Did she tell you?” Perhaps they met at a black dye convention. 

“Who?” 

“Marlboro? Marwen? Marleen? Marwolaeth? I don’t know. She told me it’s Welsh.” You remember seeing Mari’s full name on the schedule once. When the man doesn’t reply you elaborate, “Black hair? Liquid eyeliner? Passion for combat boots?” 

“I don’t give up my sources.” 

“That’s very noble of you, Mr. Batman.” If the small muscles that control your eye weren’t so fatigued, you’d be rolling them again. 

“I’ll be back sometime within the next week. In the meantime, gather all the information you have on the deaths concerned and put them onto a drive for me.” 

This makes you chuckle as you turn back to your laptop to shut it down, you’ve decided to call it a night, “Yeah. Right. I’m just going to break privacy laws and risk my license so that a man in a cape can ‘help’ me -,” But when you turn back around he’s gone. 

_But for real. Fuck that guy._

.  
.  
.

At five thirty in the morning you’re finally crawling into your bed. You’re so exhausted that your muscles ache like you have the flu. You regret not taking some pain medication _before_ you hit the mattress. Because now that you’re here, nothing short of a fire would rip you from it’s box-spring, memory-foam, down-comforter goodness. 

As you drift off to sleep you recall the feel of lips sliding against yours and of strong hands on your waist. You think about how when you pulled away, you’d laughed at the mess of dark purple lipstick that had transferred onto Bruce Wayne’s lips. And how even when you’d wiped it off for him a bit of violet remained on the inside edge. Almost like...

Almost like the hypoxic hue inside the lips of the bodies that are delivered to your autopsy tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marwolaeth is Welsh for Death.  
> Guys, Mari is Death. I know you know that, but just in case you didn't - or are way too sleepy to pick up on context clues like me. 
> 
> Wanted to get down one last chapter before school starts again tomorrow. My updates will start petering out, but I'm gonna shoot for at least one chapter a week. 
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We barely get any time on this planet. Do not spend it pleasing other people. **Fuck politeness.** Live life exactly how you want to live it so you can love the life you make for yourself. _
> 
> _\- Karen Kilgariff_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> mention of a suicide autopsy, body gore, mention of motor vehicle accident autopsy, workplace sexism/harassment, cliched female protagonist struggling to find her voice and purpose (listen this should be a standing chapter warning)

First thing Monday morning, you see Mari has sent you an email with several large attachments.

“ _Holy shit…_ ,” 

The graveyard tech has really outdone herself. Somehow she’d found the time to sift through _two_ years of cases to find the sudden cardiac deaths due to aortic dissection of people under thirty five. According to her notes, she’d removed any cases in which the dissection made sense, such as any preexisting conditions or signs of trauma. There are twenty five.

_Twenty five._

That averages one sudden (unexplained) cardiac death _per month_ brought into OCME Gotham over the past two years. 

Disconnecting your laptop from the monitors on your desk, you take it with you, leaving your office in a hurry. Ron won’t be able to ignore this now. Even if McFaden is putting pressure on him, he can’t ignore numbers like these.

He’s just unlocking his office as you jog up to him and when he looks up to see you coming, your steps falter. Ron does _not_ look happy to see you. As a matter of fact, he looks at you as if you are the last person in the world he wants to see, which is strange because he says, “Ah. Just the person I wanted to see.” 

Holding his door open to you, he nods into his office, “In you go, Smallville. We have some business to discuss.” 

Hugging your laptop to you, you remind yourself why you’re here, not wanting whatever “business” Ron has to discuss distract you. You’re here for them. _Twenty five people. **Twenty. Five.**_

“Actually… ,” Your voice comes out timid while you take a seat in front of his desk. You clear your throat and instill it with more confidence, “Actually, I have something I want to talk to you about too.” 

As Ron sets his coffee down, takes off his jacket, and gets settled into his desk you tell him about the files Mari sent you. You are speaking as fast as possible, sensing that you only have his attention for a limited amount of time and you want to impress the gravity of the situation upon him. When you stop to take a breath, Ron holds out a hand in a _stop_ gesture while pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand. 

Seeing him react this way, as if what you’re telling him is about as welcome as a polyp on his colon, your stomach plummets. You bite down hard on the inside of your bottom lip to keep from saying more. 

“How many did you say?”

“Twenty five.” 

Ron crosses his forearms over each other on top of his desk and meets your gaze, his moustache tipped down from his frown. 

“Smallville, do you know how many people die every year in Gotham?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, “Fifty five thousand. What’s fifty five thousand multiplied by two?”

Since his first question was rhetorical, it takes a few seconds for you to realize he’s waiting for you to answer. “Oh! Uhm…,” you think and flush, feeling flustered and taken off guard by this direction of questioning, “One hundred and ten thousand?” 

“And what is twenty five divided by one hundred and ten thousand?” 

You frown. Not just because he’s making you do your least favorite subject, but because he’s systematically humiliating you. Speaking to you like a child. 

“I’ll give you a hint. It doesn’t matter, because it’s way too small of a number to be on my radar.” 

“Your logic is flawed,” he raises an eyebrow at you, “Ted Bundy killed thirty people. Should the deaths of his victims not have been investigated? By your logic they shouldn’t have.” 

“Is there any evidence to indicate homicide in these people?” He gestures to your laptop. 

“Well, not yet but-,” 

Ron interrupts you, “Smallville, until there are any other patterns you have to show me that indicate something else might be happening to these people, I don’t want to hear it. I can’t have you looking into things that don’t warrant further investigation. Not when we’re already drowning in work as it is.” 

When you open your mouth to speak, he holds his hand out again and continues, “Now this brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

He sits up straighter in his chair and you mirror him, firming your jaw, bracing yourself for whatever is coming. A lump has started to form in your throat and your face is on fire. You wish you could steel your tear ducts because, unfortunately, you tend to get misty when you’re frustrated or nervous and that leads to people dismissing you. 

“It has come to my attention that you did an examination on a young woman…,” he thumbs through his notes, “Emily Sakai?” 

You nod and try to swallow down the lump. 

“Did you know we were not yet authorized to do that examination?” 

You did, but shake your head and point out, “An unexpected death in a woman this age would be grounds for an examination.” 

“That’s not up to us to decide. That’s up to the coroner or her family.” 

Sliding your jaw back and forth, you let the burn of indignant rage consume your humiliation and lean forward in your chair, narrowing your eyes at Ron. “So you’re saying I needed to wait until McFaden could be bothered to answer his phone before doing the exam?” 

Ron tips his head down in a single nod. 

You slam your hands on his desk, then jab your finger towards his chest, “That’s bullshit and you know it. Forensics is a time sensitive science. The sooner we can get the exam done, the more accurate the results. I’m sorry that _I_ want to _do my job_ and figure out what happened to Emily Sakai while the rest of you were catering to Connor McFaden’s ego. My duty is to these people, not to him. I’m not going to wait for the go-ahead of a guy who doesn’t know the difference between an erythrocyte and a leukocyte just so he could feel like a _big important man_ who can make _big important decisions_. I wonder how much shit we could get done if we weren’t having to tiptoe around the fragile egos of fragile men all day long.” 

“You are out of line, doctor.” Ron is mad now too. His cheeks are pink and his voice shakes with the effort of keeping it down, “Your actions could not only get you fired, but could cost you your license.”

You stand up, puff out your chest, and call his bluff, “Then do it. Fire me. Report me to the medical board. I’m sure they’d be interested in what goes on here.” 

The tension builds as you stare each other down. You are ninety percent sure that Ron won’t fire you or report you to the medical board, but that ten percent of uncertainty starts to grow with every second of silence. When he finally deflates you exhale the breath you were holding and collapse back down in the chair to bask in your triumph.

“We both know I’m not going to fire you. Especially not after the Charity Ball.” 

This takes you off guard, “What do you mean not ‘after the Charity Ball’?” 

“Don’t play coy with me, Smallville, you’re already taxing my patience today.” When furrow your brow to indicate your continued bafflement, he groans and explains, “You leave the Charity Ball with Bruce Wayne and then I get a call from Wayne Enterprises saying they are coming in this week for a meeting because they ‘may be interested in donating to OCME Gotham’?” 

You guffaw, “There is absolutely no way that I have anything to do with Bruce Way-,” But you stop. 

If the reason Ron is willing to keep you here is because he thinks Bruce Wayne is interested in you… or whatever, maybe it’d be best to let him believe it. 

You know there is no way a conversation under fireworks followed by a brief (but memorable) New Years Eve kiss could have inspired the richest man in Gotham to give money to the OCME. But if you want to figure out what’s going on with these cases you’ll need continued access to the resources here. If you could convince Ron that it _is_ you who has drawn the eye of Wayne Enterprises, just until you could figure out what happened to these twenty-five people, you’d have the run of the OCME. 

“I may have been born at night, Smallville, but it wasn’t _last_ night.” 

Lucky for you, you don’t have to convince him of anything. You just don’t have to _correct_ his assumptions. 

.  
.  
.

What if Ron is right? 

What if you’re seeing patterns where there aren’t any? What if you’re just wasting time and resources making something out of nothing? What if this is just you being bored and wanting something exceptional in your life? 

But… What if Ron is _wrong?_

What if something is going on? What if these deaths aren’t just outliers or freak accidents? What if there’s some way to prevent this from happening? 

These are the questions that essentially turn you into the embodiment of the Charlie Kelly conspiracy meme. They keep you up at night and have you bringing your laptop home from work for the next week. 

On Monday night you look into trends in appearance. 

In most medical specialties it’s considered unethical and bad practice to make assumptions about your patients, it’s best to ask your patients any questions directly. However, a medical examiner does not have this luxury. All ME’s have to go off of are lab values, previous medical charts, official documents, and what other information you can piece together from familial reports. A ME has to try their best to fill in the gaps and that often means making assumptions. 

It’s uncomfortable and dehumanizing to reduce these twenty-five individuals by their “identifying information” so that you can fit them into boxes in an excel sheet. But, as unsavory as it is, it’s an important task in your line of work in order to establish potential familial relationships, determining possible preexisting conditions, or perhaps to indicate a “preference” on the off chance you’re dealing with a serial killer. 

Using the data from their files you find that of the twenty five, two are men and the other twenty three are women. Fifteen have brunette or black hair, three are redheads, and seven are blondes. Ten have brown eyes, eight hazel, five blue, and two green. The race and ethnicity breakdown is equally unhelpful: four are listed as Asian, five Hispanic or Latino, six Black or African American, and ten White. You number their birthmarks, their moles, their freckles, their scars, their fillings. Then you compare weights of livers and kidneys and hearts. And after all of this…

You’ve got nothing. 

On Tuesday you look at where they were found. 

Everyone except Emily, Sadie, and a twenty year old girl named Angelina were found in their homes. When you make little dots across a map of Gotham, you stand back and look at it. You couldn’t make a pattern from it if you’d tried. It’s completely random. East Side, West Side, University District, The Bowery, The Heights, Cherry Hill, Burnside, Brideshead, almost every single neighborhood in Gotham had a victim. 

On Wednesday you look into their occupations. 

Ten were students, but they all had different majors. Of those ten, seven had part time jobs in the food-service industry but none of them at the same place. Six worked in the healthcare industry, three nurses, two nursing assistants, and one phlebotomist - but all at different places. Three worked in call-centers, but they were at different companies in different parts of the city. There was one who was a yoga-instructor, another an exotic dancer, and another one a nail technician. The last three didn’t have an occupation listed. 

Nothing. No patterns. 

_It is the responsibility of the medical examiner to tell the last story a person needs to tell._

_What are your stories?_

Oh Thursday you plan to look into where they were raised. But on Thursday morning it snows and there’s a multi-car pile up on the interstate with six fatalities. 

Any deaths from accidents in the area are automatically sent to the OCME and one of the exams from the accident is added to the exam you are already planning on doing. On top of this extra work, Ron is insisting you come to the Wayne Industries meeting, which will be a _complete_ waste of your time. 

Your first autopsy is a gun-shot wound that is a presumed suicide. On principle, you take your time when doing any forensic exam, but you try to be _extra_ thorough on anything presumed to be a suicide. Making sure to document anything and everything - just in case the GCPD decide to look into it. Because of this you are late to the meeting, walking into the conference room when everyone is already sitting and watching Ron give his presentation at the head of the room. 

A table of men in suits all turn to look at you, including Bruce Wayne. After meeting his cutting gaze, you incline your head to him in acknowledgement, then walk to your seat on the OCME side of the table. You sit in a spot between a guy from HR and someone else you don’t recognize, but are pretty sure is not with Wayne based on the relative poor quality of his suit. 

While you get settled Ron introduces you. And when you greedily reach for one of the neglected muffins in the middle of the table, you nod to the men across the table, once again meeting eyes with Mr. Wayne.

From this, more intimate distance, you’re forced to remember the alluring way his mouth hitches to one side while he’s shooting you that cocky smile of his. Your stomach flutters like there’s been a whole house of butterflies released in it and you look quickly away. You pretend to be preoccupied in setting up your laptop while taking a rolled up newspaper to those butterflies. You have no time for any sort of stomach flutters or drops or _bubbles._

_Couldn’t Bruce Wayne stop giving me that look? And while he’s at it, could he stop **looking** like that? It’s indecent. Doesn’t he know I’m trying to figure out what’s killing people in Gotham? Maybe if I make it abundantly clear that I’m the last person on earth he wants to be looking at like that... ___

__But you’re not sure what else you can do aside from picking your nose or vomiting on his lap at this point, because you're not exactly putting your best foot forward in the sex-appeal department at the moment._ _

__In your rush to get to work this morning, after hearing about the accident, you threw your hair up and ran out the door with nary a look in the mirror. You’re positive if your mother saw you she’d exclaim, _‘Baby, you’d make a freight train take a dirt road lookin’ like that!’_ _ _

__In addition, you arrive at the meeting in your mint green scrubs, a color that isn’t flattering on anyone. You didn’t see the point in changing out of them from the last exam since you have another one right after this farce of a meeting. And although you took off the disposable gown, you’re sure the smell of death still lingers._ _

__On top of all of this, since you know you won’t have time to take a lunch, you’re gracelessly snarfing down your poppy-seed muffin, making a small beach of crumbs on the table in front of you (there really is no polite way to eat a muffin)._ _

__Even though _this_ is the version of yourself you are presenting, you can still feel his eyes on you and when you glance at him you see that he’s watching you with an amused expression. _ _

__Trying to focus your attention on Ron, you see that he is giving a _powerpoint_ presentation. _Powerpoint!_ To men who have been in presentations for multimillion dollar mergers no less. It’s difficult to watch, but you refuse to look across the table lest your stomach betray you again. _ _

__In a last ditch effort to distract you from both men, you pull up your investigation on your laptop and start pinning the childhood homes of the victims over a map of Gotham. It’s a slow going process because some people had multiple homes in their lives, but by the time Ron is done, you’re putting in the last few data points._ _

__Once the chatter around the table indicates the meeting is drawing to a close, you risk a peek at your boss. He meets your eyes and frowns at you in disapproval._ _

__What did he expect you to do? Did he think you’d show up in a pencil-skirt, push-up bra, and stilettos? Was he expecting you to spend time putting on winged-liner and lipstick when you got a call at six in the morning to hurry in? You’re beginning to think he’d rather you’d do that then what you were actually hired to do: figure out how people died._ _

__You stand up, close your laptop, and announce, “Thank you all for coming, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”_ _

__And without letting _anyone_ speak or looking in Bruce Wayne’s direction, you leave. _ _

__As you take your laptop to your office, plug it in to charge, and then rush down for your second exam of the day, you hear your mom’s voice in your head. She’s saying, ‘ _Where are your manners? Who raised you to be so impolite?_ ’ _ _

___I said ‘thank you’ and ‘excuse me.’_ You point out before realizing how… insane it is for you to be having an imaginary argument with your mother in your head. _ _

___.  
.  
._

__The exam you are assigned from the accident is straightforward and you make quick work of it. It’s a gorey mess with missing, dangling body parts, and tissues so lacerated they appear shredded. But that’s to be expected from interstate fatalities. The tiny thread of silver lining in this tragic death, it is that, from what you can tell, the death was instantaneous. Meaning, if any consolation can be provided to the family it would be that their loved one didn’t suffer._ _

__When you’re finally in the locker room changing out of your exam scrubs and into your everyday professional clothes, you do so in a daze. After the day you’ve had, your mind feels numb from overstimulation. You’re ready to go to your office, finish up your notes, and head home._ _

__But someone is in your office, and it’s not Dr. Kim, the ME you share it with._ _

__“Mr. Wayne? What are you doing here?”_ _

__He looks out of place looming in your cluttered corner of the poorly-lit room, slouching on your desk amongst the papers in his obscenely expensive suit and his perfectly polished head of thick espresso hair._ _

__While you walk toward your desk, he stands up straight and crosses his arms across his chest while looking you up and down. “My company had a business meeting here today. You might not have noticed, you seemed a little… _preoccupied_.” _ _

__If he wasn’t giving you that damned smirk you might’ve been irritated at his little quip. But you find the promise of flirtatious banter behind his smile invigorating. It feels like the fog is clearing from your brain and your heart is pumping a little more efficiently._ _

__“Now that you mention it…, ” you look at the ceiling and pretend to think and then say, “Ah yes. I _do_ remember something of that meeting. There was something about it that was… intoxicating. Mouthwatering. _Delicious_.” With every word you step closer to him, delighting when his eyes darken and flicker to your lips, “A muffin.”_ _

__After a split second of what looks like genuine surprise, he laughs, exposing his mouthful of perfect teeth sparkling like an actor in a toothpaste commercial. An image barges into your mind, of him gently raking those teeth across your bottom lip. You shiver and then shake your head like an etch-a-sketch in an effort to erase the memory._ _

___No time for crushes. No time for flirting._ _ _

__You clear your throat and speak with a marked professionalism, while you turn to power your laptop on, “What can I help you with, Mr. Wayne?”_ _

__“Oh, so I’m ‘Mr. Wayne’ now? With our history, you should feel comfortable calling me Bruce.”_ _

__“Our history?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “We don’t have a _history._ ” _ _

__“Whatever you say, Quince. I’d still prefer it if you called me Bruce.”_ _

__“But Bruce is a total step-dad name. Bruce is a bald guy with a goatee.”_ _

__“How do you know this isn’t a wig?” He leans in and tips his head forward._ _

__Before you can think better of it you pinch a lock and tug, laughing while you declare, “Not a wig. Perhaps plugs?”_ _

__When he meets your gaze again, your breath catches. He’s so close that you can see the delicate webbing lines of his iris. Dark, shadowy grey, deep navy, and indigo._ _

__How did you get here again? A mere seconds ago you’d committed to no flirting, no crushes. But this back and forth you have with him, it’s as easy and natural as breathing._ _

__The sound of a third person, clearing their throat at the doorway shatters the spell between you two and you jump away from him. Ron is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a knowing sparkle to his eyes as he looks between the two of you._ _

__“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”_ _

__“Not at all!” This is a frustrating problem of yours: somehow sounding the guiltiest when you’re not guilty at all. You can feel the gaze of the man next to you and your skin starts to prickle._ _

___Shiiiit. Now does Bruce Wayne think that **I** think something is going on between us. _ _ _

__“I just wanted to make sure Mr. Wayne didn’t need anything else.”_ _

__“No. That’ll be all, Ron.” His tone is dismissive. You watch how in his _own_ office, which _he_ runs, Ron allows this outsider to dismiss him. _ _

__“Wow…,” You turn to _Bruce_ , placing your palms on the edge of the desk behind you and leaning back, “So _that’s_ how I get him to listen to me. All I need to do is be a man with a shit-ton of money. Silly me thinking that becoming a board certified forensic pathologist would lend me enough credentials to merit being _listened_ to.” _ _

__You can’t tell if you're disappointed or touched when he doesn’t respond with a sarcastic rejoinder and instead frowns with concern. No matter how you feel about his reaction, the quiet that follows is uncomfortable._ _

__However, your realization that Bruce might not like Ron emboldens you to broach the subject of your boss and his assumption that you were the reason for the interest of Wayne Enterprises. “So, do you remember how I said Ron alluded to his expectation for me to… _convince_ you to donate to the OCME?” _ _

__He nods once._ _

__“Well, I know that I’m not the reason you’re here, but since we left the Charity Ball together, Ron thinks it is.” You take a deep breath and look at the floor, then spill out, “Anyway, I don’t think Ron wants me here but I still have stuff I need to do, so I was wondering if you would be willing to help buy me a little more time by… I dunno… _pretending_ that you’re interested in me until I finish up the… _things_ I need to do.” _ _

__If you’d thought the silence before was uncomfortable, this is dense and suffocating by comparison. You’re paralyzed under the weight of it, too chicken to look at him, or speak again, or breathe. You just pick at the silver polish on your nails and pray for it to end._ _

__He puts a knuckle under your chin and tilts your head back and you’re so astonished by his response, you breathe out a tiny gasp. When he slides his thumb across your lip your butterflies come back with a vengeance, like a mythical hydra reanimating stronger than it was before. He stoops down, brushing his cheek against yours, and when he speaks into your ear, you can feel his lips moving and you shiver._ _

__“Of course, Quince. I’ll pretend.”_ _

__On his way back to standing, he stops to press the sweetest of kisses on your forehead. Then he leaves you there, so stunned that you don’t even notice Ron standing in the doorway until he’s gone._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As one of my classmates said yesterday,
> 
> "Hematopoiesis lecture on one screen, the fall of democracy on the other. Welcome to med school 2021, folks." 
> 
> But seriously. Let's all just escape into fantasy lands on AO3 for the next couple of weeks. It's called coping. lol.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle._
> 
> _\- Gloria Steinem_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> Batman doesn't knock  
> nostalgia for Pyrex dishes

During medical school one of the items next to your desk was an industrial-academic-style dual corkboard and whiteboard, the kind with a thick metal frame and wheels. You’d taken it apart after residency and it had been collecting dust in the back of your closet, until two days ago when you’d reassembled it in your living room and went full procedural crime drama detective. 

On the corkboard side, where there used to be a complete metabolic map, weekly medical acronyms you needed to memorize, and random flyers, there is now a map of Gotham. The map has microscopic punctures from the constant application and removal of color-coded pins. 

The whiteboard side was less impressive. This was where you used to repetitively draw out complex enzymatic processes and drug interactions until they were firmly placed in your memory. Now, however, all that is on the white board side is a pattern of question marks you’d doodled while you were trying to come up with some hypotheses. 

In this way, Ron is right. _This_ isn’t supposed to be your job. Ideally, you’d find a pattern and be able to pass that information onto the next applicable party. For example, when you took the information on these twenty-five deaths to Ron, he should’ve notified the department of health, who then should’ve looked further into the case. If the department of health was coming up empty handed, they could delegate the tasks to another party, maybe even a homicide detective if necessary.

But now that it’s obvious this protocol isn’t being followed, you feel the responsibility to undertake the task yourself, to do the job of three different departments alone. 

After work, you shower off the smell of the OCME, put on sweats, and order some shawarma. Then you get to work replicating what you have on your computer onto the corkboard, moving the pins that represent the deaths into the areas of their childhood homes. It only takes you about twenty minutes and when you’re done, you step back and look at the map. 

Unlike any of the other data points you’ve collected, this doesn’t appear random. The pins are clumped together in five areas of the city. This should be enough evidence to pass this onto the department of public health and you start to feel giddy with excitement, but take a deep breath and temper it. If your previous interactions with Ron concerning these cases have taught you anything, it’s to not get your hopes up. So instead of immediately drafting an email to him as you would’ve previously, you decide to spend the weekend doing a bit of independent research.

You’re so deep in thought, staring at the board unseeingly that you jump when your phone starts to buzz on the coffee table. When you see it’s your mother, you debate not answering, but you know she’ll give you a helluva guilt trip the next time you talk to her. 

“Hey, mama.” You flop yourself onto your sofa, keeping your eyes on the map. 

You immediately regret your decision to answer when she huffs, “Why are you answerin’ your phone, baby? It’s a Friday night. A girl your age and as pretty as you should be out on the town, gettin’ her drinks paid for by handsome strangers.”

“Why’d you call me if you were expecting me to be out?”

“It was a test. And you failed.” 

Holding the phone away from your face, you press one of your throw pillows to your face to scream into it for a fraction of a second. How was it possible for one person to be a source of so much love and yet so much agitation?

Once recovered from your miniature freak-out you answer, “Maybe I don’t go out because you give me so much grief when I miss your calls. So maybe I stay in to make sure I can answer. Ever think of that?”

Completely ignoring your sass, she continues, “I’ve been worrying’ about you bein’ at home all the time like a spinster and I got to chattin’ with Ada from down the road about it this afternoon at Bunko. She was tellin’ me that her sister’s boy Michael is livin’ out there in the big city -,” 

A creak coming from the bedroom channels your focus away from your mother’s voice. You keep the phone pressed to your ear as you stand up and creep down the short hallway toward the room. You’re vaguely aware that keeps talking but you’ve stopped hearing her since the sound of rushing blood from your elevated heart rate drowns her out.

The rational side of your mind tries to reason that this is an old apartment and its old bones often creak and complain. But your fingers are vibrating from the adrenaline rush as you gather your courage to whip around into the open door of your bedroom, flicking on the light as you do. Seeing nothing amiss, you sigh with relief and press a hand to your chest. 

“Did you say somethin’, baby?” Your mother’s voice pulls you back down to earth. 

In reply to her question, you shake your head before remembering she can’t see you, then laugh a “No, mama. I didn’t say nothin’.” Before turning back to the living room, you close your eyes and flinch, reprimanding yourself for your reply. You’ve worked so hard and consciously to keep the accent you inherited from your mother out of your mouth, but every single time you talk to her it comes back with a vengeance.

“So, as I was sayin’, I told Ada that you’d be happy to show her nephew ‘round the city -,” Once again, your mother’s voice is driven out of your ears. This time because there is a man in your living room. 

A jolt of electric shock travels through your jaw and out your molars, radiating across your cheeks, making them tingle. Looming behind the couch you were sitting in moments prior, in all of his black-masked and caped glory, is Batman. Similar to how he’d filled your office, his presence seems overbearing in your small living space. 

He’s peering at you and you are completely deer-in-the-headlights. Tongue frozen, eyes wide, feet rooted to the floor. 

You hear your name being said in your mother’s voice, but it sounds far away and muffled, like there’s a wall between you two. Some sort of automatic reasoning keeps you from screaming out or alerting her to the fact that someone has broken into your house. If she bore witness to that you know she’d likely alert the media and GCPD and GCFD and ask them to only send their attractive single first-responders. 

It’s telling that you’d rather take your risks with a formidable vigilante, who’s in your house uninvited, than your mother. 

“Listen, mama,” Your voice comes out mildly robotic, “I gotta run. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She starts to say something, but you’ve hung up on her. 

“Doctor.” The intruder nods at you in greeting. 

“You should leave before I call the police.” You hold up your phone, wishing you had a bit more confidence behind your words. 

“Go ahead. Call them. This won’t take much time and I’ll be long gone before they can be bothered to respond to your call. You know just as well as I do that the GCPD is useless.” 

He’s right. You do know this, and you don’t place the call. But you stay in your spot, at the mouth of the hallway leading into the living room. From here, if needed, it would only take a few quick steps to the side to lock yourself into the bathroom. 

“What are you doing here? If you’re here for the drive, I didn’t make one for you. I’m not going to risk my license for you.” 

“No. The drive was my futile attempt to establish some sort of professional trust between the two of us. I have access to all the information I need. I’ve come here to help you.” If nothing else, Batman is efficient and to-the-point. 

This makes you scoff, “Is that so?” You tilt your jaw up defiantly and cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll have you know. I don’t need your help.” You take a few steps closer to him, into the living room. Your fear is retreating, making room for stubborn pride to take the stage. 

“Is that right? Tell me: while you were in medical school at the University of Kansas, did they give you much education on the distribution of organized crime in Gotham?”

Something about his half-smirk gives you an eerie, spine tingling sensation of deja vu, distracting you from his question. 

_Focus_. You chastise yourself, furrowing your brow and shaking your head while you reload and rephrase his question: _Did I learn about Gotham’s organized crime distribution while in medical school?_

Taken out of the context of its sarcastic delivery, you’re left baffled by his ridiculous inquiry. You frown, “... No? Why would I have learned that in medical school?”

He huffs out his exhale in exasperation, and moves to rub his neck before remembering he’s wearing a cowl. This makes you smile. _What a dumbass._

“Because these areas,” he gestures to the board, “where your pins are clustered. They’re boundaries you’d only know if you knew the distribution of major groups of organized crime in Gotham.” 

“Pray tell, how the hell am I supposed to know that?” 

“You could ask for help.” 

“Are you insinuating I should ask for _your_ help?” 

That cocky half-smile, the one you swear you’ve seen somewhere before, makes a brief appearance before he takes control of his facial expression. 

You shake your head, “No. Why would I do that?” 

“Because, just like you, I’m trying to figure this out and we can figure it out quicker if we work together.” 

“Begging your pardon, but I am **not** , ‘ _just like you_ ,’ sir. I am going to figure this out the _right_ way, the _legal_ way.” When he inclines his head ever so slightly toward all the sensitive patient information you’ve brought home from work, something that is not _right_ nor _legal_ , you flush with shame and amend, “As best as I can.”

The Dark Knight has moved to open the window to the fire escape, letting the cool January air in. The white curtains with scalloped eyelet edges billow out like graceful tentacles of a jellyfish and you shiver, this time from the cold. 

“When you figure out there is no ‘right’ way to solve these types of things in Gotham, I’ll be around, doctor.” 

And before you can reply, he’s gone like a ridiculous magician with a dramatic swirl of black cape. 

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

A bout of anxiety induced insomnia, courtesy of that entitled asshat Batman, kept you from getting much sleep that night. 

But sometime between four and five in the morning you go from wide-awake to a deep slumber. One second you’re looking at the red numbers on your alarm clock, wondering if you’ll ever fall asleep, and the next second you are being woken up by something wet dripping on your face. 

With a sharp gasp, you come-to all at once, jackknifing into a sitting position and wiping the wetness from your face. It takes a solid ten seconds for you to get your bearings. To realize where you are (your bed), what time it is (eight in the morning), and why your face is wet (your elderly neighbor is standing at the edge of your bed with a spray bottle). 

“What the _hell_ , Lizzie?” 

Your neighbor is a stooped waif of a woman who wears her silver hair cut into a blunt bob with bangs. She speaks with a thick Polish accent and is always wearing some sort of neon patterned muumuu that she is chronically pulling up as it slides down her narrow shoulders. Today the print is a purple and pink paisley on an acid green background and it’s so bright that you have to squint when you look at it. Apparently your retinas are also adjusting to being awake. 

“How did you get in here?” You ask, rubbing your eyes.

“I get master key from landlord.” 

You pull your fingers from your fatigue-swollen eyelids to give her a confused look. 

Lizzie jabs a long knobby finger toward your unassuming alarm clock on your night stand, “ _This_ make all the beeping and shouting since _six_ ,” she holds up six fingers, “in the morning!” 

Her evident irritation makes you feel sheepish. Had your alarm truly been going off for _two_ hours without you waking up? 

“So I go to landlord and make him give me key.” 

“Nice to know that our landlord is so invested in our privacy.” In your sleep-deprived state, your sarcasm knows no bounds. 

“ _Nie_ ,” Lizzie waves your concern away, “No worry, _muy droga_. Landlord Alexi is man of old-country, he only would give key to me.” 

This doesn’t seem to instill you with the same amount of trust in the man as it has with Lizzie, but you can tell that arguing with her on the matter would be futile. You plop back down on your pillow and close your eyes against the throb that is starting to radiate out from your temples. You feel the foot of your mattress depress ever so slightly, indicating that Lizzie has sat down. 

“Do you have work today?” 

Very carefully, as to not exacerbate your growing headache, you shake your head. 

“Then why does alarm go off?” she snaps. 

“I like to keep a consistent sleep schedule.” 

You can hardly blame your neighbor when she derisively blows a raspberry at your answer. It _does_ sound lame. So lame that even a woman in her eighties can see it. 

“The girl who live here before you, she doctor like you. She lonely like you too, but at least she had dog, and friend, and _wampir_ boyfriend.” 

Budding defensiveness propels you up into a sitting position again, “I _have_ a pet!” You point out your bedroom door in a vague indication of the fishbowl that sits on your counter and which holds a solitary deep navy and maroon betta you refer to as Big Tuna. “ _And!_ ” you add emphatically when she raises an eyebrow at you, “I have a friend. _You’re_ my friend.” 

The look of sympathy that crosses her face makes your previous bud of defensiveness bloom. From over your blankets she pats your knee, “Fish not dog and old woman not friend.” 

“You’re not my friend?” 

She makes what you can only describe as a Slavic grumbling sound in the back of her throat then says, “You know what I mean. Old woman is not _good_ friend for primetime girl.” 

You know you shouldn’t. You know it’s impolite. You know it’s problematic. But you can’t help yourself. You snicker at your neighbor and ask, “I’m sorry, but what exactly is a ‘ _primetime girl’_?” 

Once again she makes the guttural throat noise and swats at your shins, chastising you, “You know what I mean!” But there’s a smile tugging at her wrinkled, shriveled lips and a fond glint in her eyes as she stands and looks down at you. 

“You have no plans tonight.” It isn’t a question, “I come by later with pierogies and _nalewka_ , to keep us warm.” 

When Lizzie says ‘to keep us warm,’ you know she means, ‘to get us tipsy.’ It’s one of the first things you learned about her when she brought over a bottle of ‘homemade _nalewka_ ,’ (which turned out to be just macerated cherries in vodka) to ‘keep you warm’ when you moved in eight months ago. 

You nod and smile at the woman, relieved she wasn’t bringing cupcakes. Lizzie is an anomaly. She makes the best pierogies you’ve ever had, and yet she consistently manages to completely mess up the cake mix cupcakes she is often forcing on you. 

You hear her shuffling to the door and before she leaves, she shouts back, “Oh! And cupcakes!” 

Although she left threatening cupcakes, your neighbor has significantly lightened your mood and you’re still chuckling while you get out of bed, throw a robe on over your pajamas, and walk out into your kitchen to make some tea. After you put the kettle on, you lean over your sink to peer into Big Tuna’s fishbowl, _they_ (you don’t know how to determine the anatomical sex of betta fish and don’t want to assume it’s pronouns) peek out from inside the window of their Spongebob pineapple house. 

Gently tapping the glass you sigh, “That old bat was right about one thing, Big Tuna. A fish is no dog. Don’t get me wrong you’re great and all, but even you can admit, you’re not very cuddly.” 

Before you can feel fully ridiculous for having a conversation with a betta fish in which you are worried that you’d offended them, something in the living room, beyond the bowl, draws your attention. You straighten and gaze out at the corkboard with the map of Gotham stapled onto it. 

Sometime during the night, someone had drawn on it. Your lips part in astonishment as you approach it and see that there are five different amorphous boundaries drawn, all in different colors, and each of them more or less encompassing your groupings of pins. Five different labels are scribbled in an all-caps masculine hand within each shape: _Yakuza, Penitente (Cartel), Reily, Cosa Nostra, Dockyard Dogs._

“Can you believe the audacity of this bat?” You cock your head to the side and shout over your shoulder, presumably to Big Tuna. Perhaps you should get a dog. 

All of the sudden, two jarring sounds ring out simultaneously, making you jump. From the kitchen, your tea kettle starts to whistle, and from your laptop on the coffee table, the dinging sound of an incoming email. 

After silencing the kettle and pouring the hot water over your bag of loose leaf Earl Grey, you carry the mug with you to the couch, nestling your face into the lavender and bergamot scented steam as you walk and inhaling as if it were a drug (which, technically speaking, caffeine _is_ a drug). The smell of Earl Grey reminds you of your nana back in Smallville, of butterfly gold printed Pyrex mugs, of white sheets hanging on a line, it reminds you of the best parts of home. 

You take a tiny sip as you sit down onto the couch, scalding the tip of your tongue. Then you set it down to cool and pick up your computer. 

When you see the email from Ron, the lightness and laughter brought on by Lizzie and the warm fuzzy feelings brought on by the tea, they pop and sag to the ground like a deflated balloon. 

The email contains no body, only a subject line and an attachment. The subject line reads: _Thought you’d be interested in this_. And the attachment is a scientific article published in the journal _Gotham City Public Health_ from a year ago entitled, “Higher cases of sudden cardiac death (SCD) related to aortic dissection in Gotham: a possible side effect of exposure to high pollution in drinking water in formative years.” 

It makes sense now why the childhood homes were patterned. If those areas had high pollution in their drinking water and these people were exposed from a young age, if what this study was saying was true, then this could be the cause of their SCD. 

You should be happy. At the very least now you know that the deaths were being looked into, or had been looked into at some point. 

And you _try_ to be happy. You do. 

Still, as you rip down the map and throw it in the trash, you can’t help but feel the seed of a devastating emptiness in the pit of your stomach.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You don’t need a silver fork to eat good food._
> 
> _\- Paul Prudhomme_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> gross autopsy, mild depression, bitches be cold, fluffy nonsense with only a dash of plot

The next day, you slog through your work day. You’re feeling apathetic, burnt out, and fatigued. You take your time on the autopsy you’re performing, not because the case warrants an in-depth exam, but because you’re just all-around… _blah._

This doesn’t bode well with your colleagues since this particular body wasn’t found for two days and it is ripe. From the furtive sideways glances and dramatic hand waving in front of their faces to disperse the smell, you can tell that they want you to hurry it up and get him back into the air-sealed cold storage. 

It’s a relatively straightforward case and your findings in the internal examination back up your differential diagnoses based on the external examination and initial tox screen (Simpson yellow skin, spider angiomas, ascites, and high ethanol). Cause of death: complications of untreated alcoholic liver disease.

Before heading back to your office, you take a long shower in the locker room. Washing the sickly sweet and sharp fermented smell of decay out of your hair and putting on your clean, fresh professional clothes since you don’t have another autopsy scheduled for the day. You only wash your hair at work after cases such as these. Because if you don’t, you catch whiffs of the decedent all day long, as if they are haunting you. 

The rest of the day you spend hidden away in your office, charting and replying to emails. The lack of enthusiasm you perform these tasks with is noticeable enough for the usually reserved Dr. Kim, your office-mate, to comment on it. She even offers to buy you coffee, which you decline. 

Now that your little side-project has come to an abrupt end, there’s nothing to distract you from the issues that came to a head at the New Year's Charity Ball. Your desire to leave Gotham is still present, as is your dissatisfaction with working at OCME Gotham. If anything, your inquiries into the SCD deaths and Ron’s response (or lack of response) to them, have only served to increase your conviction to leave the city. It was a demonstration of your lack of autonomy, the lack of respect, and the complete disregard of your professional opinion by your superiors here. 

However, you still needed a moment. A moment to take a breath, to mentally and emotionally process this decision, and to mourn the loss of the vision you’d had of what your life would be here when you accepted the job in Gotham. 

You told yourself that after you’d said your farewells to the gritty, independent, metropolitan, homicide-solving, Lady Justice image of yourself, you’d accept defeat. You’d reach out to all your friends from med school and residency and see if they knew of any job opportunities in their area. At least then you’d have some sort of built-in support system from the start. 

When you’re finally leaving for the day, someone calls your name right as you start walking down the sidewalk in the direction of the subway. 

You look up, toward the direction of the voice, to see Bruce Wayne, looking straight out of an Armani ad in his suit, leaning casually against a slate gray Mercedes sedan. With every step you take toward him, you can’t help but notice a new delicious detail. The way he cocks his eyebrow when he smiles at you, the mischievous glint in his eyes as he takes you in, the graceful, yet powerful, way he pushes off from the car when you are close enough to have a conversation. 

“Mr. Way- I mean, Bruce? What are you doing here?” 

He takes a step closer, right into your personal space, making your stomach feel like it’s full of lit sparklers, all warm and crackly and chaotic. 

“I’m here to pick you up of course.” When furrow your brows at him in confusion, he leans forward, hands still in his pockets, until your foreheads are almost touching. In a lower voice, he reminds you, “I’m _pretending_ to be interested in you. Remember? And if I _were_ interested in you, I would want to pick you up from work.”

A defiant lock of his hair dares to depart from the perfectly ordered bunch, sweeping across his forehead. Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and brush it back into place. Bruce’s smile warms and the sparklers in your stomach mature into full-blown fireworks, triggering a bout of bashfulness followed by a dose of guilt. 

You jerk your fingers away, as if his forehead is made out of hot coals, and clear your throat in an attempt to break whatever spell his proximity is putting on you. You look down at your feet as you shuffle back from him. The way the toes of your worn Dr. Marten Mary Jane's stare down his unblemished designer oxfords brings to mind the _Fearless Girl_ statue on Wall Street facing off with the bull. 

“Erm… you don’t have to pretend anymore.” Right after you’ve spoken the words aloud, a thought pops into your head as clear as day: _But I wish you would. I wish you would pretend with me for a while._

“Why not? Did something happen with Ron? What did he do?” The growing protective edge to his voice leaves you feeling flattered, flushed, and flustered. And looking back up at him doesn’t help matters since his eyes are bright with focused anger and his jaw is working out his agitation, causing your cavewoman brain to grunt her enthusiastic approval.

“No, no, no,” much to your cavewoman brain’s _disapproval_ you quickly correct him, “It’s nothing like that. There have just been some recent… developments to the cases I was looking into and, long story short, I no longer have any reason to stay in Gotham.” A lump has developed in your throat since it’s the first time you’ve admitted as much aloud. And as is usually the case, saying something out loud to another person makes it seem abruptly, tangibly _real._

A crease forms between Bruce’s brows and he takes a step toward you again, “You’re leaving?” He seems so distraught over the news that if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was still pretending to be interested in you. 

“I haven’t made any formal arrangements yet, but the sooner I can get out, the better. I don’t think big city life is for me.” You chuckle, trying to make light of the situation, but it’s a sad and anemic noise. 

Bruce straightens, and sighs, “Well, at the very least, let me take you home.”

“Oh.” You wave a dismissive hand, “There’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of taking the train like I do every day.” 

“Did it sound like I was making a request, _Quince_?” He strides over and opens the back seat of the car, holding his hand out indicating you should get it. The playful nature of his tone and expression of his face instantly lifts your spirits.

_Well then…_

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re bossy, _Bruce?_ ” You say as you slide past him and into the car, mimicking his tone and struggling to keep the smile off your face, making your mouth twitch.

“I don’t know. Alfred,” he ducks in for a moment to address the driver and you become hypnotized by watching the way his neck muscles, inches from your face and in your eyeline, move while he’s talking, “Do you think I’m bossy?” 

Before waiting for an answer, he stands, closes your door, and walks around to the other side of the car. Once he’s out of the way, you get a clear view of the driver. He’s a genteel looking man in his sixties or seventies with a regal looking profile and kind eyes. He merely chuckles good-naturedly at his employer’s question. 

“Where are we taking you?” Bruce asks as he settles into his seat and you give his driver your address.

After a few seconds of silence he turns in his seat to face you and asks, “So, Quince, indulge me: why don’t you think ‘big city life’ is for you?” 

When you turn and gaze at his smirk, you’re struck with deja vu. You’ve been here before. You’ve seen that smirk before. 

But of course you have. 

The first time you met Bruce Wayne, you’d just come to the same decision to leave Gotham, instilling you with the same reckless energy you had now. The same freeing feeling of throwing all caution to the wind and being as honest as you wanted. 

This is what must be causing the deja vu. 

You lean your back against the door, “Because I’m not happy here. I’m lonely. I’m in a job where my boss doesn’t let me _do my job._ I’m friendless, and that would be fine if I didn’t enjoy having friends. But despite what they say about forensic pathologists, I really do enjoy having friends.” With a sigh you look over your shoulder out the window, pressing your cheek to the cold glass, watching the neon lights blur together into a psychedelic rainbow, “I guess, in the end, there’s nothing really keeping me here.” 

“We could be friends…,” The vulnerability in Bruce’s voice draws your attention. He’s gazing at you with an intense expression that you can’t quite read, the multicolored city lights casting eerie shadows across his face.

“We could?” 

He sits up straighter, “I mean, I don’t have many friends either. Because of my… job, it’s not practical for me to have any friends. And I’ve really enjoyed _pretending_ with you. Maybe we could be friends until you leave?”

Initially, you try to hide your grin, but _why?_ What’s the point in hiding from him now? If all goes according to plan, you’ll be out of Gotham in a couple months and will probably never see him again. With this logic you go ahead and let the grin spread across your face. “I’d like that.” 

Bruce claps and jostles about in his seat with pure excitement, reminding you a bit of Clark Gable. Not the actor, the golden retriever you had when you were little. 

“Change of plans, Alfred!” He leans over and pats the driver on his shoulders, briefly sobering to ask you, “You don’t have any plans tonight do you?” 

“No? Why?” 

“I’m taking you to dinner. That’s why.” 

“Dinner?” you wrinkle your nose. 

“Yes. You do eat dinner don’t you?” 

Narrowing your eyes at him you say, “Don’t be a smartass. Of course I eat dinner. I’m just saying _friends_ don’t usually take _friends_ to dinner.” 

“Ah!” Bruce raises a finger and his eyebrows, “But what if one friend likes to go out to dinner to places he thinks would be a little… outside of the other friend’s budget?” 

You scoff, “Then you don’t take your friends there. Plus,” you gesture to your houndstooth pants and bulky parka, “I’m not dressed for a _fancy_ restaurant.” 

“It doesn’t matter how you’re dressed. Especially not if you’re my guest.” 

“Listen, Bruce, I’m not going to let you take me to some Michelin Star restaurant with tiny pretentious servings. I’m tired and so hungry I could eat a bear. So, if that’s where you want to have your dinner, that’s fine by me, but you can go ahead and take me home where I can shamelessly shove carbs into my pie-hole.” 

You’re not positive, but you think your little rant elicits a sniff of mirth from the driver. The look Bruce is giving you is both impressed and agitated, creased brow, wide eyes, mouth slightly parted. 

“Fine. You choose. But I’m not stepping foot inside a Cheesecake Factory.” 

You smirk, savoring your win, “Snob.” 

“Brat.” He shoots back, mirroring your smirk. 

Instead of offending you, the little teasing jab gives you a small sensation of weightlessness. This is what you’ve been missing in Gotham. A friend. 

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Per Bruce instructions, you did _not_ direct Alfred to the Cheesecake Factory. Rather, you sent him to the southside of the city, to a dark and abandoned parking lot overlooking the harbor. 

When Alfred and Bruce ask where the restaurant is, you point to a white truck with peeling paint and a string of fairy lights parked half a block away. There is a small crowd already starting to congregate and according to Instagram they just opened for service twenty minutes ago. The food-truck doesn’t have an official name, being simply dubbed “The Best Gotham City Taco Truck,” by it’s religious followers on social media. After trying their carnitas when they were parked outside of the OCME once a few months back, you’d been converted. You started following them on every social media platform you could, making sure you knew their planned locations just in case a craving for tacos hit. 

After some moments of hem-hawing and back and forth between Alfred and Bruce about whether or not it would be safe for you to go or if “Master Wayne'' should go and retrieve the food by himself, you roll your eyes, get out of the car, and march yourself right into the queue. You weren’t going to sit passively while those two talked about you as if you are a fragile little girl, especially not when you are ninety percent sure you’ve seen more fucked up shit in your line of work than either of these two distinguished gentlemen.

A _very_ affectionate young couple is in front of you in line. They are standing, facing each other, pressed together from torso to knee with the boy unabashedly keeping his hands in the back pockets of the girl’s jeans. It’s the kind of public intimacy that isn’t uncommon in younger couples, but it still makes you feel a bit queasy and when the girl turns her head to look at you, you untwist your grimace and transform it into what you hope is a polite smile. 

She doesn’t smile back. Truth be told, she’s not even looking at you, her gaze is fixated behind you and her mouth drops open a hair. When you look over your shoulder, you can’t blame her, for you have also fallen victim to the force that is Bruce Wayne’s good looks before.

“What was that about, Quince?” He growls, throwing his arms out to the side. 

“I’m hungry,” you shrug, “and when I’m hungry, I wait for no man.” 

“Noted.” When he laughs, he ejects a puff of swirly steam from his mouth. It’s frigid. You jam your hands into the pockets of your parka as you turn back to face the line. You bend and straighten your knees, in little bouncing motions in an attempt to generate some heat. 

The girl who’d been struck by Bruce, is full on gaping at him now. You glance over at him and laugh to yourself because he does look hilariously out of place here in line for a taco truck in his expensive topcoat and ridiculous burberry scarf. 

“What are you staring at, Quince?” He gives you a sideways glance. 

“I’m wondering why you two were so worried about me out here when you’re basically waltzing around with a neon sign that says, ‘ _I’m really really rich! So if you’re looking for someone to mug, look no further.’_ ” You spread your hands out in the air in front of him, indicating the sign and instantly regret it. The cold air bites mercilessly at your bare fingers. 

“That’s pretty long for a neon sign, don’t you think?” He raises an eyebrow and smiles at you as you spastically convulse in a solitary violent shiver and jam your hands back into the warmth of your pockets. “Cold?” 

You want to keep the banter up, but your chattering teeth prevent any speaking, so you nod and look forward again. Suddenly, the cozy public snuggling going on in front of you doesn’t seem so gross. 

Almost as if he heard your thoughts, you feel Bruce pull you into him. 

“F-f-f-friends d-don’t cud-d-dle.” You protest, but no part of you resists. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the vibration from his laughter. 

As the line creeps forward he guides the two of you along, as if you’re slow dancing in a middle-school dance. After a moment, your shivering has stopped, but he keeps you where you are, rubbing your arms and back diligently, eliciting minuscule sighs from you. 

Nuzzling your cheek against his scarf, makes him laugh again, “What are you doing?” 

“I’m trying to decide if I should risk forgoing rent to buy one of these scarves. You might be onto something here with your luxury fabrics. It’s like snuggling up with an alpaca that just got a deep conditioning treatment.” 

“Hopefully, I smell better than an alpaca.” 

You make a show of pressing your nose into his chest and inhaling. There it is. That subtle, clean, yet earthy smell that you remember from the ball. Mouthwatering. But really, you genuinely start salivating. 

However, that might be because you’ve arrived at the front of the truck and the smell of roasting meats, fresh tortillas, garlic, and lime has also invaded your senses. 

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You’ve had an average amount of friends in your life. You weren’t obscenely popular in school, but you weren’t antisocial either. So you feel like you can say with a reasonable amount of confidence that it isn’t typical to be so… _interested_ in watching a friend eat. 

How can someone make eating a taco look so sensual? Is it the muscles in his jaw working? Is it the way he grips the taco? Is it the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he takes a swig out of his bottle of Mexican coke? Maybe it’s the way the tip of his tongue darts out of his mouth between bites. Or how when a bit of crema is left behind at the corner of his lips he pushes it into his mouth with the pad of his thumb and sucks it off. 

Whatever it is, it’s causing you to break a rule of friendship. But you don’t feel too bad because Bruce has already broken two rules of friendship already. First, he snuggled you in line for tacos. Then, he paid for your dinner. While retrieving your wallet from your purse, he’d handed the cashier a hundred dollar bill and declared, as if he were in a movie, that they, “Keep the change.” 

After you’d gotten your food, the two of you sat on the hood of the Mercedes to eat. Bruce pulled a flask out of his suit pocket and poured a decent amount of deep amber liquid into his green-tinged Coke bottle. 

“Medicine?” You’d asked, half joking, eyebrow raised. 

“Rum.” He handed it to you. You sniffed it and then took a sip. It was smoother than any rum you’ve ever had. You poured some into your bottle and it was keeping you warm. 

Now, you watch him take the last bite of his carne asada, entranced and slightly aroused by the way he closes his eyes and groans while he chews. You have to clear your throat and look away before saying, “Good right?” 

“It’s alright I guess.” He teases and you glare at him, taking a bite of your carnitas. 

“So tell me, Quince,” he leans over and picks a shred of meat out of the corner of your taco and pops it into his mouth. 

“Hey!” You lean away, “Just because you paid for it, doesn’t mean you can steal my food!” 

He completely ignores you and continues to speak as he chews, “Why do you hide your accent?” 

This has you sitting straighter and you frown at him. When you’re around family, or when you’re angry, tired, or relaxed, the subtle hybrid southern twang and midwestern drawl of your upbringing tends to make an appearance. You didn’t think you’d let it slip out, but with the ease of the conversation with Bruce along with the dangerously delicious rum, it’s possible that it waltzed right in without you noticing. 

Perhaps sensing that you were perturbed by this comment, Bruce expands, “I’m not making fun of you, I really do like it and am curious why you hide it.” 

“I’ve noticed that people tend to dismiss me faster when they hear my accent. It’s hard to be taken seriously when people are laughing at the way I pronounce certain things.” 

“That’s unfortunate.” His tone is sincerely mournful, “For the record, I _really_ like it.” 

There’s those sparklers again. They fill your stomach and make you lose your appetite, but not in a bad way. You hand the rest of your carnitas to Bruce and after a bit of back-and-forth you convince him to take them. To force yourself to stop watching him eat, you look out into the inky blackness of the water of the harbor. The city lights are reflected onto the surface of the water, giving them a wavy, out of focus quality like a galaxy of shimmering stars. 

The moment feels significant, a Moment of Significance, if you will. One of those moments you know you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Because you know this is most likely the last time you’ll see this particular view, it’s the moment you really close the coffin on your hopes for what your life could be in Gotham. 

When Ron had offered you the job at OCME Gotham, you remember exactly where you were. You were living at home at the time, finishing up the last few months of your forensic science fellowship in Smallville and using all your income to pay off student loans. Ron had called you while you were still in bed, scrolling through social media. His offer felt like the catalyst that would transform you from the small-town version of yourself to the person you’d envisioned yourself being - the savvy, metropolitan forensic pathologist. The medical examiner who would be able to use her skills to find answers to the worst questions a family has to ask. 

In hindsight, you might’ve had unrealistic expectations for what you’d be able to accomplish out here. In a city the size of Gotham, you’ve gotten lost, your voice has been drowned out. How silly of you to think you’d actually be able to contribute anything useful here. What a simpleton you’d been to believe you might actually belong here. Because at the end of the day, you are still the same person you’ve always been and the only thing that’s changed is your surroundings. 

“What exactly happened with this project you were working on? The one that was keeping you in Gotham.” Bruce shatters your dramatic Moment of Significance. 

You take a large gulp of your rum and Coke and sigh, “In a nutshell, I thought that I’d discovered a pattern of unexplained cardiac deaths that weren’t being looked into. So I took it upon myself to look into them, but yesterday my boss sent me a scientific paper that suggests that they _are_ , or at least _have been_ , looked into and…,” you shrug, “I guess it was the unsatisfying, anticlimactic last straw for my time at the OCME and I decided there was no reason for me to stay anymore.” 

Bruce’s expression shifts from his default not-a-care-in-the-world, arrogant smirk to a serious and thoughtful one. “What is the paper about? I mean, what did it say about what’s causing the deaths?”

Since you know that his interest in this subject is likely at the surface, born of politeness, you spare him the details, “It was just a study that was done linking higher instances of unexplained sudden cardiac deaths in Gotham to being raised in areas with high water pollution.” 

“Huh… Would it be possible for you to send me that paper?” His question takes you off guard and you examine his face to see if his request is sincere. You can’t think of a time you’ve met anyone outside of your colleagues and peers who asks follow-up questions on scientific papers, or appears genuinely interested in the mundane side of your work. 

Finding no evident sign of insincerity on his face, you answer, “I don’t see why not. It was published in a public journal.” 

He nods while drinking the last of his Coke. He’s gazing out at the black harbor like you were just minutes before and you wonder if you had the same unfocused, unseeing, deep-in-thought quality to your countenance that he has right now. 

What Moment of Significance is Bruce Wayne having right now?

All at once he takes a deep breath, turns his face to yours, and smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“It’s late. Let’s get you home, Quince.” 

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The next two days your slogging through work doesn’t feel as… sloggy, thanks to your new and strange friendship with Bruce. Though you don’t actually see him, you two keep up an ongoing text conversation consisting largely of gifs and memes. It provides a nice distraction from the general sensation of heartburn you feel whenever you think about your decision to leave Gotham, which might not be happening as fast as you’d planned. 

In addition to your conversations with Bruce, your texts have been filled with reconnecting with your forensic pathology network - your friends from residency. Of the six you’ve asked about potential jobs, four of them have already come back with the ambiguous negative. Each of them with a response along the lines of: _‘There’s no openings that I know of, but I'll keep an eye out for you.’_

So when your friend Maddy calls you on your way home from work, you have no expectations. Maddy and you bonded during residency over your mutual love for true crime podcasts, bar food, and trivia. The two of you spent almost every Tuesday night together playing trivia at the bar down the street from the hospital. 

“Tell me, Dorothy, why are you looking to leave Gotham?” Maddy asks as you sandwich her voice between your shoulder and ear to unlock the door to your apartment. Since you were one of the only Kansas natives in your group of friends, they all affectionately referred to you as Dorothy. 

“It smells kinda weird and I’m sick of it.” You deadpan. 

“Well, if you think you’d be willing to be on my trivia team, I think I might be able to get a job for you here with me. One of our pathologists just announced he’s retiring.” 

You’re so excited by this that you have the urge to squeal and bounce. You refrain because one, that would be ludicrous, and two, you’re in the middle of taking off your coat. 

“You’re not shitting me are you?” You’re scared to get your hopes up. After residency Maddy got a job in a hospital in Philadelphia, and although Philly is a big city, it’s not nearly as big as Gotham. You’d be able to afford an infinitely nicer place there and Maddy would be there. It’s almost too good to be true. 

“Not at all. When you sent me that text yesterday, I wanted to respond immediately, but first I went and talked to my boss and they told me to have you send your info over -,” 

Maddy keeps talking, but yet again you find yourself distracted by something in your living room while on the phone.

The map of Gotham, the one that you’d ripped off and thrown away. It’s been meticulously reassembled and stapled back onto the corkboard. In the dead-center of the corkboard a large manilla envelope is pinned. There’s something written on it in red ink that you can’t see from where you are.

Before you approach the board, you glance around your apartment for any signs of trespassers. Though you know that if the culprit of this intrusion is who you suspect, he wouldn’t leave any signs behind. 

_This entitled asshole has no boundaries whatsoever._

The manila envelope is thick, like it’s been filled to maximum capacity with documents. You’re honestly surprised that the pin can hold it up. On the front, in the same handwriting that is outlining the boundaries on the map, the envelope reads: _Your work here isn’t done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to shoot the shit with me about who they think Gwendoline Christie will be in Netflix's Sandman series. I'm here for it. 
> 
> I love me some Gwendoline, but am baffled by the announcement.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He loses his power when we know his face._
> 
> _\- Michelle McNamara_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> Southern sass

For about twenty seconds you stare at the manila envelope. Here you are at another Moment of Significance. A moment where you decide who to trust, Batman, the absurd and potentially dangerous vigilante, or GCPD. Because you know that if you’re going to call in GCPD, you shouldn’t touch the envelope. 

In the end, you reach forward and unpin the envelope, you go with Batman. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that you go with yourself. Because there’s enough evidence here to get you reported to the medical board for violations of patient privacy, bringing home patient information is a big no-no. 

Inside the document there are seven documents total. Five of them appear to be lengthy court transcripts, which you aren’t really sure what do with. One is a birth certificate, and the last document is the infamous water pollution paper that Ron sent you and you sent to Bruce. 

“Great.” You mumble to yourself sarcastically as you flip through the pages of the document. 

It probably shouldn’t come as a shock that Batman is keeping tabs on your inbox. If he feels justified breaking into your house and office whenever he pleases, why wouldn’t he also think himself entitled to know the ins and outs of your electronic communications? 

On all the documents, little tidbits of information have been highlighted in yellow highlighter. Imagining the large menacing man in full costume hunched over a desk with a highlighter in hand puts a smile on your face. Making your Batman absurd in your mind is the only way to give you a sense of power in this relationship. A relationship where he knows everything about you and you know nothing about him, except perhaps his favorite color - black. 

You set the court transcripts aside and sit down with the research paper and birth certificate to examine them closer. The birth certificate is for none other than your favorite Gotham coroner, Connor McFaden. But it isn’t his name that is highlighted on his certificate, it’s his mother’s, Maeve Riley. 

Trying to recall where you’ve heard the name before, you repeat it out loud over and over as you lean forward to pull your laptop from the coffee table onto your lap, “Riley. Riley. Riiiiileeeey.” 

It’s not an uncommon name, so perhaps you’re making more of it than there needs to be, but you go ahead and do a quick google search _Maeve Riley Gotham_. Her name comes up in a piece written two years ago in _Gotham Weekly_ about a used bookstore and cafe she owns on the eastside of the city. Another quick search of her store, which is called The Druid’s Den, pulls up the address and confirms it is still in business. When you glance up at the map on the corkboard to place the store visually, you kick yourself for not remembering. Maeve Riley’s bookstore is in the territory labeled ‘Riley.’ 

Is Batman trying to suggest that through his mother, Connor is tied to a family involved in organized crime? If so, you’re unimpressed. It doesn’t take a connection to an organized crime family for you to see the man is crooked. Even with this link, you’re not surprised, you’re willing to bet that well over fifty percent of the elected officials in Gotham have connections to organized crime in one way or another. 

You set the birth certificate aside and pick up the paper. In contrast to the birth certificate, the things highlighted in _this_ document _do_ shock you. Not so much because of their content, but because of how much had slipped by your well-practiced critical thinking skills. The Bat has highlighted the first and third authors of the paper. The first is Phillip Dixon, you don’t recognize his name, but the third is _Sadie Jones_. As in the Sadie Jones who’s autopsy you did on New Years Eve, the one set to testify in the trial of the Falcone family. 

Since you’d been doing research on the victims of the unexplained SCD cases, including hers, you remember that she was a neuroscientist. Why would a _neuroscientist_ be listed as third author on a retrospective public health study about water pollution and unexplained sudden cardiac deaths? While you don’t consider yourself an expert on the scope of neuroscience, you are quite confident there is no neuroscience whatsoever in the paper, which you confirm with a quick re-scan of it’s contents. 

When you get to the last page, you see that there is a statement highlighted. It’s in the summary of funding portion, in small print, _‘Study done at Gotham University with the help of the records at OCME Gotham and funding from Daggett Labs.’_

You glance at the publication date and see that the “study” was done four years ago. How long has this been going on? How many deaths have unexplained SCD by aortic dissection on their death certificate?

More importantly, how had you missed all of this? Were you so willing to give up, so beaten down, that you became submissive? Was it your subconscious trying to get you out of a city you were miserable in? 

As you had with Maeve Riley, you look up Phillip Dixon. He’s a tenured biochemistry professor at Gotham University. At least his expertise could be justified in the context of the study. You find his office hours on his faculty webpage and make plans to take a late lunch tomorrow to go and ask him questions you have about the paper. First and foremost: why was Sadie Jones listed as an author? 

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Professor Dixon is a tall and skinny man in his mid to late fifties. His eyes, nose, and ears are all over-large and protuberant which is in direct contrast to his thin, almost non existent lips. He has a head of fine, waxen hair, a clean shaven face, and is wearing a maroon bow-tie. The man is doing little to combat the nerdy, virginal chemistry professor stereotype. Although, from the pictures he has on display of his wife and daughter, you can safely assume Professor Dixon is not a virgin.

“Have a seat.” He directs, without looking up from the papers on his desk. You do as he asks and after making a mark on the paper in front of him, he finally focuses his attention on you. He searches your face for a moment before declaring, “You aren’t one of my students.” 

“No, I’m not.” You confirm with a smile and introduce yourself, holding your hand out for him to shake. 

Though he takes your hand, his face is full of apprehension, “A forensic pathologist you say? If you’d given me a million guesses as to what you do for a living, I’d never had guessed that.” 

This is a sentiment that is often expressed to you, and you grow weary of it. But you want to keep the atmosphere open and aimable, so you channel all the social niceties your mother instilled in you and laugh delightedly, as if it’s the first time you’ve heard such a thing. Professor Dixon looks pleased with himself and relaxes back into his chair, it does amaze you how far making someone feel clever will get you. 

“To what do I owe this visit, doctor?” 

“I’m here because I have some questions about a study you did a while back.” 

“Certainly. Which one?” 

“The one about exposure to water pollution and increased rates of SCD’s.” You don’t see his initial reaction to this because you are digging in your bag for the paper, but by the time you are facing him again his previous congeniality has melted. 

When you put the paper in front of him, he clears his throat and focuses his gaze back onto yours. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions, but it was so long ago I might not remember many of the details.” 

It’s not just the stiffness in his voice that makes his statement ring insincere. From what you know of professors, they rarely forget studies they have done. It’s the nature of their obsessions, they live and breathe research, and the ones that make it to publication are permanently etched into their minds. Thus, Dixon referring to the study as being, ‘so long ago, he might have forgotten,’ after only four years since publication is difficult for you to believe. 

“The main question I have isn’t about the details really, it’s about one of the authors. Did you work closely with Dr. Sadie Jones?” 

One of his eyebrows twitch and when he speaks his tone is clipped, “If this is about the mess she got herself into, I know nothing about that. Dr. Jones and I worked together one time on this paper. I knew nothing about her personal life.” 

“I was actually wondering why she was involved with the research at all? Since she was a neuroscientist who’s previous work was largely on thalamic receptors involved in sleep, I’m having trouble placing her contribution.” You’d looked up Dr. Jones’ body of work the night before. 

Dixon clears his throat and shifts in his chair, “I apologize, but my office hours are really for my students and it’s not fair for me to use this time on you, doctor.” He stands and holds his arm out indicating the exit, “Let’s make an appointment for a more… formal meeting. Send me an email and we will set one up.” 

You remain seated, uncrossing your legs and planting your feet firmly on the ground in front of you, “Really, Professor Dixon, this shouldn’t take much of your time. They are simple questions with simple answers.” 

His features have hardened, “It has nothing to do with the questions, doctor. This is about your lack of professionalism and your entitlement.” 

“Entitlement?” 

“You clearly feel entitled to come in here and waste not only my time but the time of my students.” 

Puffed up with your indignation at his accusation, you rise, “You seemed more than happy to speak with me and kindly invited me into your office until I started asking about Dr. Jones. Do you know what, Professor Dixon? I will make a formal appointment with you, and now that you’ve confirmed my suspicions on the… illegitimacy of this study, I will have time to think up better questions to ask you. And if you think that ignoring me will make the problem go away, then you are mistaken. Because I won’t stop until I get some answers. If going to your superiors doesn’t work, perhaps going to the press will.” 

Not wanting to give him the last word or an opportunity to question your confidence in your threats, you turn on your heel and leave him with a stupid, dumbfounded look on his pasty face. 

On the way out of the university and all the way to the University Station, you walk with aggressive, clipped strides, as if you are using the pavement to vent your agitation. If nothing else, your meeting with Phillip Dixon has validated what was written by Batman on the manila envelope. Evidently, your work is _not_ done here. There _is_ something going on and no one is looking into it, no one seems to care, and you want to know _why._

This means you’ll need to tell Maddy to hold off. That you’ll need to stay at the OCME a bit longer. That you’ll still need Bruce’s help. 

In what feels like serendipity, you pull out your phone to send him a text right as it vibrates with an incoming text from the man himself: _What are you up to, Quince? Not getting into too much trouble I hope._

You roll your lips between your teeth to contain your smile and immediately start to type your response: _That’s exactly what I’m doing. Are you spying on me? ;)_

The bad mood from the conversation you had with Dixon is dissipating rapidly as you watch the text bubble indicating his incoming reply. Bruce responds: _Of course. Isn’t that what friends do?_

The task seems simple enough, asking Bruce Wayne to pretend to be interested in you again for a little while. But your thumb is paralyzed, hovering over the letters on your screen. You decide the request is more of an in-person thing, not because it’s a big deal but because you want to make sure you’re conveying the appropriate casual tone and able to assure him it won’t be a long-term thing. 

So, instead you ask him if he wants to hang out tonight. You can’t ignore the heavy feeling of disappointment when he tells you that he has to do something for work tonight, or the hasty transformation of said disappointment into delight when he suggests he bring you lunch tomorrow. It is becoming clear that your feelings for Bruce aren’t strictly... _friendly_ in nature.

If he were going to be a long-term fixture in your life, you’d do the mature and responsible thing. You’d confront the feelings, sort them out, make a decision on whether they were strong enough to warrant discussing them, or if they were just a passing frivolity. But Bruce Wayne was not going to be a main character in your story. As soon as you had enough information on these deaths to prove there was something nefarious going on, you were out of this god-forsaken city. 

For this reason, you allow yourself to have a harmless crush on the handsome billionaire. You further justify your fluttery feelings toward him as a much needed emotional break from the bleak stressors of your job, and you indulge yourself in a minuscule daydream for the rest of the train ride back to the OCME. One where you remember the feel of his silken hair under your fingers, the way his lips felt on yours, the pressure of his hands on your back. 

A fantasy of an authentic kiss between two lonely friends. 

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.

The rest of your day at work passes in a blur. You know you did your job, and you’re quite confident you did it right, but if someone were to ask you what you did, you’d have to think about it for a moment. 

This is most likely because you were working through a haze of mental distraction. You kept replaying the meeting with Professor Dixon, trying to analyze his microexpressions until you weren’t sure what his face actually looked like during his responses and what you’d projected in your memories. 

You’re still in that mental haze as you unlock the door to your apartment and let yourself in. This is why it takes you until you’ve taken off your coat and shoes, and placed your bag on the table before you notice the ominous silhouette lurking in the shadows of your living room. 

As you're reacting, as the feeble yelp comes out of your mouth and your heart lurches, you realize who it is. Because who the hell else would it be? Who else would be so brazen as to break in and lurk in the shadows? Who else would believe they had the authority to invade your privacy? 

_What a dick._

After you regain some composure, you force your face and voice into a facade of boredom and greet Batman by simply saying, “Oh. It’s you again.” 

You like to imagine the ridiculous, human moments in this grown man’s day-to-day. Gyrating to squeeze into his spandex. Singing along with David Bowie while painting racoon eyes onto his face. Having to urgently find a bathroom while in costume after dining at a questionable hot dog stand, cape billowing out behind him as he clutches his stomach and jogs awkwardly into a men's room. 

Try as you might to shrink him in your mind like this, there is no denying the intimidating presence that is Batman. It’s almost as if he exudes a pheromone, or a pulsating frequency that makes your lizard brain send out an alarm, keeping your hair on end, leaving you a little breathless. This intimidation is only made worse when he steps out from the shadows and reveals to you that he is… not pleased. 

Not that you’ve ever really seen him pleased - though, to be fair, it _is_ difficult to read his expression with his mask on. In the past he’s always seemed either neutral or stern in a patronizing way. True, there were a few instances where you thought he might be amused, but never quite _pleased_. But now, you are positive he is upset. 

The corners of his mouth are downturned and the muscles of his jaw are working. He shoots a glare in your direction that practically had your skin warming from the waves of heated rage he is directing at you. 

“What?” You’re not sure what you’ve done to deserve this from him, and it makes you defensive. You narrow your eyes, square your shoulders, cross your arms, and tilt your chin up defiantly. Though you take a side step into the narrow kitchen, feeling safer with the countertop between the two of you before you do. 

“Where did you go for lunch today?” 

Your jaw drops. “ _Excuuuse_ me? I don’t see how it’s any of your concern where I went for lunch. And frankly, I don’t appreciate you speakin’ to me like your my daddy.” You’re too mad to care that your accent has reared its unsophisticated head. 

“You went to see Dixon.” It’s not a question. 

“Well if you already knew, I’m not sure why you asked.” 

“Why did you go and see him?” His voice is deep, growly, dangerous, and you notice that he flexes his leather clad hands into fists. The Bat is fuming and you’re not sure whether to be scared or smug about it. 

After a petulant scoff, you point out, “Because _you_ sent me to him? _Remember?_ The highlighted paper in the envelope?” 

“I didn’t _send_ you to him. I was showing you the connection between him and Daggett, then Daggett to some organized crime rings, including the Riley family, the family that is currently in charge of Irish Mafia.”

He’s taken a few steps forward while he was speaking, increasing your defensiveness. 

“Pray tell, how exactly was I supposed to see these _‘connections’_?” 

“Did you read the court transcripts?” 

You don’t have to answer because before you can stop it, a sheepish expression, catalyzed by guilt, takes over your face. Thankfully, Batman doesn’t appear eager to dwell on this detail. Rather, he wants to continue chastising you for your decision to visit Dixon. 

“From what I can deduce, Dixon’s involvement with organized crime has been due to threats made toward his family. His daughter was involved for a time with one of the Falcone’s.” 

You think about the pictures of the pretty, smiling girl with the flaxen hair and dark eyebrows on Dixon’s desk. If what Batman is saying is true, you feel a bit sorry for the guy. It’s obvious that his family is incredibly important to him, something that, no doubt, made him an easy target. 

“I have eyes on him, but didn’t expect much activity. Until today. Right after you left, he made a phone call. I traced it to a burner. Whoever he called now has all your information.” 

The cold fingers of dread start to twist up your abdomen, but you attempt to shake it away, “But.. I didn’t give Dixon more than my name and occupation. Isn’t it a bit of a leap to assume that some ne’er-do-well has all my information?” 

For a brief moment, you notice a twitch in the corner of the man’s mouth and he repeats with a sardonic tone, “ _‘Ne’er-do-well’_?” 

A sensation of familiarity slaps you hard across the face, but before you can expound upon it, the Bat pushes it out of your mind by continuing in his reestablished stoicism, “You really don’t get it do you?” 

Up come your defenses and they’re stronger than before. You place your palms on your counter and lean forward, furrowing your brow, “I could do without all your patronizin’ horseshit. If you’ve got somethin’ to say, say it. Otherwise, there’s the door,” you jerk your head back toward your front door, then nod forward toward the window, “or the window. Whichever is your preference.” 

He sighs and does that thing where he reaches back to rub the back of his neck but remembers he’s wearing a cowl. You roll your eyes and straighten as he fixes you with an intent stare. 

“These people are organized and _dangerous_ , doctor. I guarantee they already know everything about you. Where you live, where you're from, who your parents are, where you work, _when_ you work, what you take to work. There’s probably someone parked outside of this apartment building to track you as we speak.”

The genuine concern lacing his voice takes you off guard. While he continues to speak you watch Big Tuna come out of his pineapple house, gliding listlessly through the water and you mindlessly pick at a thread on the forearm of your shirt, still folded across your body, “Right now they are assessing you. Best case scenario, they decide you’re harmless and leave you alone.”

You snap your eyes back to his and your fingers still. “Worst case scenario?” 

“If they think that you could be useful to them, they will extort you. If they determine you are a big enough threat, they will extinguish you.”

_Extinguish_. You wrinkle your nose at his word choice, it makes you feel like you’re a tiny, helpless, irrelevant bug just waiting to be crushed underneath a boot. 

“I was under the impression that you were wanting to work together as a team. But you seem to have everything figured out. What do you need me for? If you’re on the case, there’s no reason for me to stay here in Gotham.” 

At this Batman eases up a bit, relaxing his shoulders and responding in his normal, stoic tone, “Having a forensic pathologist in the medical examiner's office on my team would make my life a lot easier. You have a certain… _expertise_ that I don’t.” 

“Ooof. That sounded like it was difficult for you to admit.” You deadpan. “Let me guess, you like to work alone?” 

“Normally,” if he finds your little poke amusing, he doesn’t show it, “but occasionally someone comes along who I’d like to partner up with for some time.” 

“Am I supposed to be flattered by that?” Although you say it with a hefty dose of salt, what you’d never admit to him is that you kind of _are_ flattered by that. No, not kind of. You’re _really_ flattered by that. It’s validating that the only person who seems to get shit done in Gotham has singled you out for your skills to work with. It’s nice to be taken seriously. 

He shrugs, “I don’t care if you’re flattered by it. But I’d like you to work with me.” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Of course.” 

“Are you sure?” You gesture to the corkboard with the map of Gotham, “Because it seems to me like you’ve been forcing my hand in a lot of this.” 

“Some people need a push to get going.” 

You wonder if Batman ever apologizes. 

“Can you give me some time to think about it?” 

He nods, but adds, “You might want to think fast, before another dissected aorta winds up on your table.” He pulls something out of his utility belt and reaches across the countertop to hand it to you. It’s a pen. A simple, click, ballpoint pen. You stare at it like a moron. 

“Click it.” 

You do, and gasp in amazement. Hating that he’s impressed you, but in your defense it’s something straight out of a James Bond movie. When you click it, a pen doesn’t come out, a needle does. 

“Ketamine.” He answers your unasked question, “Enough to put a horse to sleep. Not only that, but when you click the button, it also sends me your location.” 

Shaking your head, you hand it back to him, “No way. I’m not giving you a way to track me.” 

Several seconds pass and you play the staring game, holding out your hand with the pen in it, until it hits you. For someone who doesn't want to appear naive, you sure find yourself falling into the role a lot of the time.

“You’ve already been tracking me, haven’t you?” 

Once again, the corner of Batman’s mouth ticks up, and he doesn’t even need to answer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's a little bit funny_   
>  _This feeling inside_   
>  _I'm not one of those who can easily hide_
> 
> _\- Elton John, "Your Song"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> feelings (perhaps too many?), and some pretentious descriptions

When you were growing up in Smallville, you learned quickly to keep your fascination with true crime a secret. 

Your mother didn’t think it was “proper” for a young lady to be so interested in death, specifically mysterious or nefarious causes of death. And after you gave a presentation on homicide in your eighth grade psychology class, and she was called by your teacher, your mother doubled-down. She banned your “murder shows,” and went through your room with a box, throwing in anything that she thought was contributing to your “unnatural fixation.” Your Nancy Drew books, your fake scalpel pen, the overdue forensic science library book, and even your actual human biology textbook - she took them all to GoodWill. 

Even so, she was never able to successfully smother your passion for true crime. And much to her irritation, your father would often joke about the “skeletons in your closet” when referring to the eight seasons of _Bones_ on DVD, the Ann Rule books, and the whole chest of murder mystery novels that you’d squirreled away over the years. Though, you learned to hold your tongue and to “hush up” about the things that interested you most, the mysteries that were on your mind at almost all hours of the day. 

But the day you moved out for college, it all came rushing back; out came your collection of procedural crime dramas, your documentaries, your biographies. You flooded the bookshelves of your dorm room with them, and lo and behold, you found your people and once you’d found your people, there was no turning back. You knew what you wanted and you worked your ass off for your dream - your dream of becoming a part of the forensic sciences. Your dream of helping to solve crimes. 

All of this is a long winded way to say that, perhaps for someone who has spent a lifetime learning about and working with the absolute worst side of humanity, you should be a bit more paranoid with what the Dark Knight told you about the mob. 

Yet, after a sound nights’ sleep you wake up, get ready for work, look at the ketamine pen that he left for you next to Big Tuna’s bowl, shrug, and leave for work without it. 

Maybe he’s right. Maybe the mob or the mafia or whatever _are_ tracking you, and maybe they’d follow you around for a bit. Even so, you are sure that _if_ they are, they’ll soon realize what little power you have and leave you alone. There’s no way someone as low on the pecking order as you would be worth the risks or resources to take out. And over the next few days, you appear to be right and you nearly forget about the whole ordeal as you dive back into the cases. 

Never one to discount scientific research out of hand, you’ve decided to do your own informal ‘research’ into the possibility of there being a shared contaminant in developmental years causing this issue. Afterall, shared environmental exposures in childhood have been implicated in many malignancies throughout history. From widespread mental decay due to lead cookware in ancient Rome, to increased rates of cancer in the survivors of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. 

Though you’re skeptical that any pollutant could lead to a weakening and subsequent puncture of the muscular aorta and not show signs anywhere else. So, that’s where you start: plunging into any and all pathological information on each of the twenty-five victims, looking for signs, for clues. 

You take a systematic approach, using the list in Dixon’s paper of pollutants and adding some of your own, you examine each organ system that would be expected to be affected by chronic exposure to each pollutant. You examine not only the macroscopic findings, but also the microscopic histology slides from biopsies taken, and any clues in the overall health history that might point to any underlying issues. 

It’s a task that consumes you for three whole days and if it weren’t for Bruce, you might’ve collapsed from the exhaustion of it. 

If it weren’t for him bringing you lunch, you’re sure you’d forget to eat. If it weren’t for him consistently sending you hilarious videos or memes, you’re sure you’d forget that wonderful things, things that aren’t death, exist outside your bubble of hyperfixation. And if it weren’t for him texting you every night, reminding you to go to sleep, you’re sure you’d stay up all night, consumed in your world of spreadsheets, photographs of organs, and pink and purple histological slides.

In the end, however, it was all for nothing. The minor malignancies you _did_ find on a handful of the decedents were completely unrelated. One had a kidney stone forming, another some benign polyps in their colon. One iron deficiency anemia, another weak bones, and so on and so forth. 

Yet again, you discern no patterns from your extensive search and you emerge feeling utterly exhausted and lost on how to proceed with your unofficial investigation. As your hopelessness and powerlessness grows, so does a baffling sensation of disappointment when you come home every night to find it devoid of vigilantes. You deduce this sensation most likely occurs because you want someone to point you in a new direction, you want Batman to give you something, _anything_ , to do to get this case moving forward. 

And yes, there is also a chance, a very _small_ chance, that it’s because you’re enjoying the pseudo-professional relationship you have with him. A relationship in which you’re actually being listened to and respected and your hard-earned expertise is being acknowledged, which is something you haven’t experienced since moving to Gotham. 

By Friday, five days after your last meeting with The Bat, your motivation is in short supply as you head to work. When you get to the OCME, you head to the locker room to get into your scrubs for your scheduled exam, but you are intercepted by Ron. 

“Ron? What are you doing here?” You glance at the clock on the wall, it’s ten to six. You’re surprised to see him, he’s the only examiner in the office who works a regular nine-to-five and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him here this early. 

He looks you up and down and frowns, “You didn’t get my email?” 

You furrow your brow in confusion and then before you can get a chance to inquire further, he waves an impatient hand and says, “Go change into something nicer, we have a meeting with Wayne Enterprises today and you need to be there.” 

“But I need to go do my exam?” 

“I’ve given your scheduled exam to Kim.” You wince imagining what this will do to your already awkward relationship with your office mate. You assume Dr. Kim isn’t very pleased with getting called in on her day off to do your exam.

“I don’t know why I can’t do it before the meeting. There should be plenty of time.”

“They’re coming at eight.” 

You frown, “Okay? Then I’ll do it after. I don’t see what the problem is.” 

Ron shakes his head again, “You see, that won’t work, Smallville, because your friend Bruce Wayne has requested that after the meeting you have the rest of the day off for some… outing he has planned for you.” 

This news leaves you dumbfounded and it takes you a few solid breaths for you to wrap your head and emotions around it. Once you do, you find that the dominant reaction you’re having toward this news is one of anger. 

The impertinence of Bruce Wayne to request that your boss give you the day off! To think of these two men discussing plans for your day, thinking they get to decide where you’ll be and what you’ll be doing, without any regard to your opinion on the matter or how it would affect your professional reputation, it makes you livid. It makes your jaw tense and your hands ball into fists.

“Tell Dr. Kim I’ll do the exam after the meeting.” You snap. 

Ron’s aggravation is growing, you can feel it rolling off of him in waves directed toward you. A fact he confirms by pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning, “For a girl who looks so innocent, you are a right pain in the ass, you know that, Smallville?”

As you start to move past him, he grabs your upper arm and fixes you with a stern stare. You try to tug your arm back, but he doesn’t let it go, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, especially since the paperwork hasn’t been signed yet, but Wayne Enterprises has committed _half a million dollars_ to the OCME. I know you haven’t been around the business side of things here, but let me clue you in: a corporate donation of that size is unheard of. You think I wanted to be down an examiner today?” 

You shake your head. He releases your arm and relaxes, “What I’m trying to say is that we’re _all_ Bruce Wayne’s bootlickers now, comprende?” 

You nod, not because you’re any less furious but because your fury has been directed at a more appropriate target. And the first thing you do, as soon as Ron lets you leave the building, after reiterating his expectation that you’ll be putting something “nicer” on, is give said target a call. 

When Bruce answers the phone, his voice is gravely with sleep and if you weren’t so mad at him you’d think it was delicious. 

... _Okay_ , you still think it’s delicious even though you’re mad at him, a fact that only exacerbates your anger. 

“Has your head been filled with stump water?” You snarl, earning you a few raised eyebrows from pedestrians you’re passing on the sidewalk.

“Quince, I’m not awake enough to understand your hillbilly insults. Can you just deliver them to me in plain english?” Though he says it in a lighthearted quippy manner, you’re in no mood.

To avoid causing a scene, you lower your snarl to a venomous hiss. “I’m just wondering what the hell was goin’ through your head when you told my _boss_ that I needed to take the rest of the afternoon off.” 

“I thought you wanted me to act interested in you. Wasn’t that the plan?” His question gives you pause and you try to puzzle out its relevance to the situation. 

He continues, his voice taking on an impulsive irritated tone, “If I _were_ interested in you, this is exactly the kind of thing I would do. I would want to surprise you, to take you out, to bring you lunch, to pick you up from work. If I _were_ interested in you, I’d be thinking about you all day, wondering if you were getting enough to eat or enough sleep, I’d want to make you smile and laugh and I’d wish that I could be there for it.” 

“Oh…,” 

You’re not sure how to react to this because your feelings on what he’s said are dichotomous. On one side, you are still affronted by his robbing you of your autonomy, of not considering his position of power and how that could affect your professional relationships and reputation. But on the other side, the illogical fluffy side, you are straight swooning. Because the idea of Bruce being so interested in you that he’d want to surprise you, dote on you, and take care of you is such a magnificent idea that it makes you a bit dopey. Even if it is all just an act. 

A taxi honks at a pedestrian, making you jump and ripping you out of your internal insensible musings. 

“Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now?” There’s a second where you think you detect a hint of concern in his voice, but he erases that when he adds, in a teasing tone, “Are you so upset about what I did that you accidentally ran out into traffic?” 

“Ha. Ha.” You say in a dry monotone, “I’ll have you know that Ron sent me home to make myself more presentable for _your_ visit today.” 

There’s a pause and you think you hear some rapid clacking noises, like he’s typing on a keyboard, “Don’t do that. You know that microbrew coffee place, the one about a block and a half from your work?” 

“Yes…?” You snort, because you just so happen to be approaching said coffee shop. _What are the odds?_

“They have the best bear claws in the city. Go in there and drown your rage toward me in deep fried carbs, I’ll be there in ten.”

Before you can protest, and before you can tease him about being bossy, he says goodbye and hangs up. 

Fifteen minutes later you’re watching your _friend_ Bruce walk into the door, looking about as mouth watering as the bear claw you’d devoured moments before. Though you’ve grown somewhat accustomed to his finesse and all around handsomeness over the past week, you still have to temper the crackles in your lower belly as he approaches you. 

“You’re late.” You deadpan, making an exaggerated show of looking at a non-existent watch on your wrist. 

“I apologize,” he mocks solemn repentance, “I’m off to a rough start today. You see, I was woken up only twenty minutes ago by an outraged southern woman and I had no idea what she was saying.” 

Then he does the smirk, the subtle tilt of the corners of his lips, the creases on his cheeks framing his mouth like it’s in parentheses, the mischievous glint in his eyes. _The_ smirk, the one that makes your insides go haywire, the one that shorts out whole sections of your brain, temporarily reverting you back into a phase of adolescent hyperfixation. 

When your logical mind reboots, it bitch slaps you out of your smirk-induced glitch. _For the love of God, woman, it’s just a smirk._

“What?” He chuckles as you close your eyes and shake your head. 

“It’s just not fair that you look like _this_ minutes after you roll out of bed?” There’s that I’m-moving-soon-so-fuck-it honesty. 

“And how’s that?” 

_Like you belong on the cover of GQ. Like you’re headlining my fantasies. Like you’d taste more delightful than expensive champagne and feel more exquisite than a bubble bath._

“Like a CEO.” Turns out your honesty has a limit. 

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.  
.  
.  
.

There are a handful of things you doubt many people hear Bruce Wayne say, and one of them he says to you after you two scramble into the back seat of the Mercedes, leaving OCME Gotham with the eagerness of middle schoolers leaving school for summer vacation. 

“Where to now, Quince? You’re the boss.”

 _You’re the boss._

After he’d met you at the coffee shop, he’d offered to take you to Bloomingdales to fulfill Ron’s request. But since you had too much pride to be Pretty-Woman’d, you refused and instead had Alfred drive you to your apartment. 

Initially, you were a little ashamed to show Bruce how you live. He’d dropped you off before, but never come inside with you before. You knew that your tiny one bedroom apartment would probably be about the size of his closet, and you prepared for his derision by infusing yourself with a defensive self-respect. 

But his derision never came. In fact, Bruce Wayne didn’t blink an eye at your apartment, not even at the conspiracy-theory corkboard setup in the living room. It didn’t take you long to change into “something nicer” and then the two of you headed back to your work.

The meeting went off without a hitch. Or at least, from what you could tell, it did. To be honest, you were barely paying attention. It was boring and too long and full of terms and graphs and boring legal jargon that you didn’t go to school for. On more than one occasion you found yourself dozing off and about an hour into it, Bruce started sending you memes he was making out of pictures he was sneaking on his phone, trying to make you laugh. Rather, _succeeding_ at making you laugh, which you had to conceal with strangled, choking sounds. 

By the time the papers were signed and everyone was patting each other on the back, both metaphorically and literally, you were ready to dart out of the stuffy conference room like a bat out of hell. So when Bruce leaned down and mumbled into your ear, “So, Quince, did you want to stay and work? Or take me up on my offer?” 

You whispered to him, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 

Now, after he’s just told you you’re the boss, you’re feeling all light and floaty sitting on the luscious luxury leather of his Mercedes. 

“Anywhere you want. Want to go to that new restaurant in Brideshead that’s booked out for six months? We could go, I could get us in. Want to go deep sea fishing? We could take my yacht out of the harbor.” 

This sends you into a fit of giggles. His enthusiasm is contagious and gives you a sense of invincibility. Being with Bruce makes you feel like the world is your oyster, like with Bruce you could be whatever you want, accomplish anything. 

Maybe it’s this overblown sense of invincibility that gives you the idea; The Druid’s Den, the place that Maeve Riley, Connor McFaden’s mother owns. From all the true crime documentaries you’ve watched, you know that many detectives explore places connected to the crimes to get inspiration. You’re not sure what you’ll find there, or if it’s even connected at all to the cases you’re investigating, but you figure it can’t hurt. 

You lean closer to Bruce and say, with a mischievous eyebrow arched, “ _Anywhere_ , you say?” 

“Anywhere.” He mimes you, leaning closer and you hold your breath as he looks back and forth between your eyes, then down to your lips and you think he might be thinking about kissing you. 

You suck in a sharp breath and sit back up, breaking the spell. You don’t know why you do it, because kissing Bruce again is what you’ve been fantasizing about doing since New Years. You’re positive that if you’d leaned and pressed your mouth to his that he would kiss you back, but you were abruptly gripped with fear. 

Nothing has changed with your plans to leave Gotham after you finish your investigation and over the past few weeks, your friendship with Bruce has progressed at an alarming rate. This is, no doubt, due to your unprecedented openness with him. It’s a cruel paradox in which you freely share your thoughts and opinions with him because you’re freed from the conventions and rules of maintaining a long term relationship, yet in doing so you’ve developed a profound affection for him. 

You’ve already thought on more than one occasion how much you’ll miss him when you leave. Not just his potent heart-stopping smirks, but the banter, the way he knows exactly what to say to make you laugh and how to make you feel better. You’ll miss his conversation, his laugh, his smell, the way he scratches the back of his neck when he’s frustrated or thinking. 

You’ll miss… him. 

And you know it’ll be painful to leave him, there’s no helping that fact at this point. This must be why you’re terrified to take your relationship any further, why you’re too scared to kiss him. Doing that would be masochistic at this point. 

Feebly, you attempt to infuse your voice with the same coy tone as before, “Well, now that you mention it, there has been a bookstore I’ve been wanting to go to…,” 

“Oh yeah?” Bruce gives the impression of being just as eager as you to recover from the awkward almost-kiss, “Like I said: you’re the boss. Lead the way, boss.” He nods his head toward Alfred. 

You give Alfred the address, and from the corner of your eye you think you perceive that Bruce sits a bit straighter, probably because he realizes the bookstore is on the Eastside. 

_What a snob._ You think and repress a chuckle. 

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.

There’s a block of turn-of-the-century brick warehouses near the Eastside docks that have been refurbished and turned into a hipster’s paradise. There’s a tattoo parlor, an Irish-style pub, a bakery, and taking up the corner space is The Druid’s Den. 

Bruce opens the heavy oak door for you, eliciting a pleasant tinkling sound from the tiny brass bells attached overhead. You nod to him in thanks as you walk into a large room that smells of bitter, smoky coffee, the sweet earthiness of old books bound in leather, burning sage, and something else underneath, something you can only describe as green - like a damp, mossy forest, or of meadow grass at the peak of spring. 

Inside The Druid’s Den is a book lover’s haven. The floorplan is open, but not so open that a patron can’t find some peace and quiet. Among the rows of books there are little nooks with squashy cushions and ottomans for people to lose themselves in. On the shelves and walls there are so many trinkets and sculptures that you can’t focus on just one. 

Bruce comes up behind you and gently urges you forward with a palm on your lower back. He guides you through the store, toward the sounds of clinking of dishes and the tell-tale whirring and hissing of an espresso machine coming from the back corner. The worn hardwood floors are covered in rugs of all types and colors, and you pass a couple of mismatched living room sets with people sprawled on couches reading or typing away on a laptop. 

The overall vibe of The Druid’s Den is welcoming, safe, and tranquil and you’re wondering how the person who gave birth to the angry badger of a man, Connor McFaden, could possibly have designed such a place. 

Bruce keeps his hand on your lower back, even when you stop at the counter. He’s barely there, more hovering than actually touching, but you are hyper aware of his touch, as if his skin is scorching the sliver of air between you two. 

The woman working at the espresso machine is petite and in her sixties. You assume her hair was once all a vibrant copper, but is now streaked with white, giving a creamsicle hue to the thick crown braid coiled around her head. Tendrils of spiraling hair have escaped the braid, dancing around each other like strands of helical DNA, framing her pixie-like face. When she holds up a finger, without looking up, her arms jingle with the sound of her plentiful bangles. 

After she pours the milk she’d been steaming into a wide-mouthed purple ceramic mug, she sets it carefully on the counter where you and Bruce were standing, as if she were serving it to you. 

Then she looks directly at you, smiles warmly, and announces, “I’ve been expecting you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all!
> 
> just a quick note: for all those coming from Beta & Theta, this MC is _different_ than the one from that fic. "The Neurologist" (the MC from Beta & Theta, as I'll be referring to her later in _this_ fic) is going to be the MC of the third and this fic is doing some minor setting up her story for that one. 
> 
> I hope you all hang around to watch it all unfold, because I am excited to write it!! 
> 
> <3 <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He ran up beside her and saw that it was she_   
>  _Cried "Polly oh Polly have I killed thee"_   
>  _He lifted up her head and saw that she was dead_   
>  _And a fountain of tears for his true love he shed_
> 
> _\- "Polly Vaughn" Traditional Irish Folk Song_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> conversations about murder, organized crime, and intimate partner violence

Bruce stiffens behind you, and wraps his hand around your hip protectively. You might’ve thought it a strange reaction, but you’re too baffled by what the woman said to give it much thought. 

“Me?” 

Maeve nods, “Yes, you.” She looks down pointedly at the purple mug, “You’re a fan of Earl Grey are you not?” 

Curiosity getting the best of you, you reach out and pick up the cup. A strange snarling, warning noise comes from the back of Bruce’s throat and he squeezes your hip a bit harder. 

You look back at him and furrow your brow, baffled at what could be bothering him, “What? It’s not like she poisoned it.” He raises one eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, skeptical but resigned. 

Turning away from him, you bring the cup to your nose. Lavender, bergamot, vanilla. Then you take a sip, letting the silky frothed milk coat your top lip. 

“London fog.” As an avid Earl Grey fan, you’ve had your fair share, “But there’s something… different about it. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” 

Maeve looks pleased with herself and taps the tip of her nose, “You’ve got a canny nose, love, must be difficult given your line of work. It’s a touch of Irish cream. I call it a Dublin Fog.”

The following silence feels stifling, and you can somehow sense that Bruce is as taut as a rubber band. You’re afraid to even look at him, lest it make him snap. 

“How…,” you’re tentative, speaking in tiptoe, “how do you know my line of work?”

Maeve’s sharp hazel eyes shift around behind you, and then to the sides, as if she were looking for any eavesdroppers. You follow her gaze and see nothing, but she shakes her head once, “Not here. I think they’ve been following you.” 

After turning toward the white swinging door, that you presume leads into the kitchen area of the cafe, she cocks her head and orders, “Follow me.” 

You still can’t make yourself look at Bruce as you pry his hand from you and do as the woman instructs. It might be a bad choice, but you’re set on hearing whatever it is Maeve has to say. Perhaps sensing your determination, he doesn’t attempt to hold you back and instead keeps your hand in his and comes with you into the back of the cafe. Whatever alpha-male, protector thing that’s overcome him is as confusing as it is irritating, but you have to admit, you’re happy to have him here with you. 

As you suspected, the door leads into a long, narrow, hallway of a kitchen, with old white subway tiles on the floor. A sink, ice machine and dishwasher line the left side, while a range, oven and fridge the right. Pressed up against the back wall, where Maeve is waiting for you, are several large industrial metal shelves full of supplies. 

When you and Bruce make it to the woman, you see that she’s opened a heavy wooden door to a dim room and is holding it open for you. 

“Step into my office.” She says without a trace of irony. 

You start to make your way in, but are stopped in the doorway. Look over your shoulder you see that Maeve has placed a hand on Bruce’s chest and is shaking her head at him. 

You’re in awe of her gall. She’s a tiny woman and the man towers head-and-shoulders over her, yet she glares up at him with a stern line to her mouth. 

“I go where she goes.” Bruce’s voice is intimidating and he keeps your hand firmly grasped in his. 

In undergrad, you were accidentally enrolled into an upper division molecular genetics class before you’d taken the prerequisite basic human genetics. When you went to the first class you had no idea what was going on, worse, you seemed to be the only one who was lost. Looking back and forth between Bruce and Maeve, you feel the same sensation you did in that molecular genetics class. 

As you take in the mistrustful, borderline hostile way Bruce is looking down at Maeve, you feel like you’re missing something. As you observe Maeve narrow her eyes and size-up Bruce, then reluctantly nod and drop her hand, you discern that whatever just happened between the two of them was way over your head. It puts you on edge, and you walk into the room feeling defensive and put out. 

Other than the size, Maeve’s “office” is like no office you’ve been in. The room is more of a cross between greenhouse and the headquarters of some arcane, mystical coven. Three of the four walls are peeling, white-washed masonry, and the last is composed of floor-to-ceiling industrial iron windows overlooking the docks. On the periphery, there are shelves covered with knick knacks, and a dusty looking wing-backed chair upholstered in an antiquated floral. 

You take note of several items that suggest Maeve may have some sort of involvement in the occult. A ram’s skull hanging above some burning sage, on what you can only describe as a shrine. A live raven dozes in an iron cage hanging in one corner. And some sort of ancient navigational star map burned into an unfinished slice of tree trunk is hanging adjacent to a prehistoric-looking telescope with it’s scope directed out a small, unobscured section of the wall-of-windows. 

Speaking of the wall-of-windows, you imagine that if it weren’t for the shelves packed full of green plants pressed up against them, the light coming in would be dazzling. But the chlorophyllic glow that the light being filtered through the plants cast only adds to the overall enchanted quality of the room. 

Maeve glides to the table situated in the center, the fabric of her olive linen poncho-sweater billowing out behind her, and you notice the continuous border of Celtic knots embroidered in silvery thread at the hems. 

The table she moves to is a sturdy, circular, wooden card table, with a huge tree carved on the surface. The branches of the carved tree transform into knotted foliage at the top and spreads out and wraps around in a circle to join the knotted roots at the bottom in a continuum. 

You don’t recall walking to the table, but you’re tracing the grooves with your fingers, feeling the texture of the oiled wood underneath when Maeve answers your unasked question, “ _Crann bethadh_ , it’s Celtic for ‘Tree of Life.’ Ancient druids believed that the gods of the upper world,” she runs her fingers over the foliage, then follows them down to the roots, “and of the gods of the lower world, communicated with them through the trees. And they believed they could send messages to their gods through sacred, magical trees.” 

“It’s beautiful.” You breathe, because it truly is. You’ve never seen anything like it. It draws you in, as if it has its own gravitational pull. 

“Sit.” Maeve gestures to the carved, high back chairs across from her. 

Bruce, still behaving bizarrely vigilant, keeping an eye on Maeve at all times like a guard dog, pulls yours out for you and sits at the one beside you. “What did you mean when you said you were _‘expecting her’_?” His voice is stern and accusatory. You’ve never heard him speak with such callous authority and it drops your jaw a fraction of an inch and for some reason that you don’t understand, it raises the hair on the back of your neck. 

Maeve, on the other hand, is hardly intimidated. She picks up a deck of large cards that are stacked on the edge of the table and starts to shuffle them. The design on the backs of them is identical to the one carved into the table. The Tree of Life. 

“For the past few weeks,” she starts, directing her gaze toward you. You’re impressed that her tiny childlike hands can shuffle the deck with such ease, “I’ve been having visions of you in my morning meditations. At first, you were hazy, no more than a mirage. But as the days went by, you started to come into focus piece by piece. Your nose, your hair, your eyes, until you were there, just as you are now.” She searches you, her eyes shrewd. 

While she lays three cards out face down in front of you, she adds, “Except in my visions, you wore a crown made of bittersweet and belladonna, and you held a bouquet of black-eyed Susan’s.” 

“I’m sorry, but,” you interrupt her, fixating on one thing she said, “you saw _me_?” 

Maeve inclines her head in confirmation and repeats, laying her hand on the first card, “Wearing a crown of _bittersweet_...,” she flips the card over. On it there’s a beautiful illustration of a stem lined with tiny yellow flowers bursting forth with red berries. To the side of the drawing is a line with a strange pattern of markings going down them. 

She puts her hand on the second card, “...and _belladonna_ ,” this stem has purple bell-shaped blooms and black purple berries, and a different patterned line. 

She flips over the last card and you gaze down at the sunshiny faces of the golden flowers on the other side. “Holding a bouquet of black-eyed Susan’s.” 

Black-eyed Susan’s. Such a violent name for such cheerful flowers. 

“We didn’t come back here for your magic tricks.” It’s clear that Bruce is unimpressed and you’re beginning to get annoyed at how rude he’s being and shoot him a warning look. 

If Maeve notices any of this, she doesn’t show it. She points to the strange line on the bittersweet card and explains, “It’s Ogham, the primitive Irish alphabet. The cards speak to me, they whisper to me about the person they belong to.” 

“What are they saying?” You lean forward. Maybe you’re playing into her trap, but you’re genuinely captivated by this woman, this table, this room, the smell of smoldering herbs and greenery, of life and death. She has you thoroughly under her spell. 

“The bittersweet tells me that you seek truth and the black-eyed Susans tell me you seek justice. The belladonna -,” her voice dips and she pauses, studying the card, “The belladonna represents those who have been silenced. You seek truth and justice for those who have been silenced.” 

“And do you -,” this time it’s you who pauses. You need a moment to temporarily bury the last of your skepticism and surrender to her process, “I guess, what I’m wondering is, if you have any truth to tell me?” 

Maeve starts to shuffle the cards again and shrugs, “That depends,” she peers out dubiously from behind her eyelashes at Bruce, then lays four cards out in front of him face down. 

When she moves to flip the first one, his hand shoots out, quick as lightning, over hers, stopping her. He shakes his head at her. 

_Seriously, what the hell is going on? What am I missing?_

“Bruce, just do it. It doesn't mean anything.” 

You want to hear what Maeve has to say. It’s probably bullshit, but at least it might give you direction, or more likely, a distraction until you can find a legitimate direction. Either way, you’re desperate for it and you think Bruce might be ruining your chances of hearing what she has to say with whatever this random machismo crap he has going on. 

You reach your hand out and put it over his and when he looks at you, the hardened edges of his eyes and mouth appear to soften. 

“ _Please_.” You beg, putting as much sincerity as you can muster behind your eyes. 

With a resigned sigh, he lets her hand go and she turns them over one by one. 

“The pink camellia tells me you are longing for someone,” Maeve shoots you a meaningful look and your heart stutters. You chance a glance at Bruce but he might as well be a statue with the amount of emotion he betrays.

She continues, “The willow says a deep sadness runs through your veins and makes your heart heavy.” You grip your knee under the table to keep from reaching out to him. 

“Ah, but the snapdragon is a master of deception.” You suck in a breath and hold it. 

She scrutinizes him while flipping over the last card, “The lily of the valley says you’re pure of heart.” She says this with a sense of finality, as if the little white flowers painted on the card were a reliable source when determining whether to trust someone or not. 

Nevertheless, when you exhale after she says it, it’s as if the whole room relaxes along with you. Bruce and Maeve seem to come to a sort of unspoken truce and they both shift back into their seats and let their shoulders slump a little. 

The woman turns her attention to you again and says, “I might just have some truth for you, ask me what you will.” 

You’ve memorized all of the twenty five and five of their names run through your head. The names of the five that grew up on the Eastside by the docks, in the territory labeled ‘ _Riley_.’ 

_Shannon, Kayleigh, Fiona, Imogen, Dierdra._

_What happened to them? What is their story?_

“Fiona’s ma, Molly, is my dearest friend.” You stare at Maeve, stunned. You didn’t think you’d asked about them outloud. No, you’re _certain_ you didn’t ask about them out loud, but she continues, “The Murphy girl, Dierdra, she grew up just down the road from us. Same age as my Connor, pretty thing with eyes as green as emeralds.” 

_Fiona, Dierdra._

Fiona White; twenty five years old, black hair, and blue eyes. Finishing up a degree in philosophy from Gotham U while working as a server at a pub, found dead in her bed by her roommate fourteen months ago. 

Dierdra Murphy; thirty two years old, red hair, and green eyes. Pediatric nurse didn't show up for work last year, found dead on her kitchen floor by her landlord after three days. 

“I hired Imogen O’Brien as a barista when she was just sixteen. Meek little thing with her head always up in the clouds.” 

_Imogen._

Imogen O’Brien; twenty two years old, red hair, and brown eyes. Working as an exotic dancer at a place called Lucky’s not far from here. Found dead in her bathroom by her boyfriend six months ago. 

“Who else do you have on that list of yours?” Maeve has the voice of someone who has witnessed so much pain that it no longer shocks her. When she speaks it’s matter-of-fact, she exhibits no tremor, and no theatrics. Yet, you can hear the line of despair buried deep below the surface, flowing through her bloodstream. 

You’re still trying to make some sort of sense of her… _abilities_ , but you clear your throat and tell her, “Shannon Dorrity and Kayleigh Lynch.” 

Maeve threads her fingers together, and rests them on her abdomen, “I didn’t know those girls as well as the others, just that they grew up in the neighborhood.” 

After a breath of quiet, the woman asks, point-blank, “You’re wanting to find out what happened to them?” 

You don’t nod and you don’t speak an affirmation. Somehow you know that you don’t have to. Somehow you know that, against all laws of nature and science and biology, Maeve Riley knows more about you than maybe even you know about yourself. 

To be sure, as soon as you start to think about whether you should ask about the water, she sighs, leans forward to collect the cards and says, “I’m going to tell you what you already know, love. It’s not in the water.”

“Do you know what it is?” 

When she frowns, she appears to age ten years. Deep furrows appear on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth and you can see that it bothers her greatly to admit, “No. I don’t. But perhaps I can point you in the right direction?” 

Yes! You sit up straighter. 

She lays out five cards in the middle of the table and flips them over, almost mindlessly as she speaks. Each one has a different plant on it, but she doesn’t explain what they mean or tell you what they are. 

_Shannon, Kayleigh, Fiona, Imogen, Dierdra._

“When my grandfather, Patrick Riley came here from Ireland, he was only eight years old. Days before arriving at those docks you see right outside, he’d hidden behind sacks of barley with his older sister while British soldiers murdered his parents and older brother. His sister, Maeve, my namesake, was only fifteen, but when she got here, she lied and told everyone she was nineteen and that Patrick was her son.” You’re not sure what this has to do with the dead women, but you don’t want to interrupt. 

“They arrived here with little more than the clothes on their back. They had only one plan when they left Killarney: survival. They both got work at the steel mill, but Maeve was fiercely protective of her little brother and when he started to get sick from the chemicals in the air, she refused to let him go back. She was determined that he get an education, but with him not working and her given less wages because she was a woman, they were starving. So she started working at the brothel. She did the best she could to keep this from him, but as he got older, it was impossible to hide. The neighborhood is close and tight knit now, but it was even more so back then. Patrick would get teased about his mother being a whore, and as time passed he started to resent Maeve. When he was about fourteen, he became friends with one of the Sullivan boys. You know the Sullivans?” 

You shake your head, but Bruce, who you almost forgot was sitting beside you explained, as if reading the information off, “The Sullivan crime family ran a group of Irish assassins that worked for the Falcone crime family.” 

Maeve nods, “The head of the Sullivan family could see that my grandfather was uncommonly smart and took him under his wing, taught him ‘the business.’” 

“You mean he taught him how to kill? When he was only fourteen?” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. 

She laughs, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you really _aren’t_ in Kansas anymore, love.” 

Though you don’t think Maeve meant to offend you, you snap your jaw shut and rebuke yourself for allowing yourself to sound so unworldly. 

“Yes,” she picks up, “Patrick, my grandfather, was taught how to murder when he was fourteen. And he must’ve been good at it because Sullivan spent a pretty penny to send him to business school, and when he came back, Patrick Riley started the Irish mafia right here in this neighborhood. His business; smuggling firearms. When he died, my father took over, and now my nephew Sean sits at the throne.”

“What does this have to do with the victims?” Bruce interjects, impatient and rude. 

She narrows her eyes at him yet again and says, “Because of my family’s connections, I know more about the goings on in organized crime than most. My grandfather told me that the Falcone’s hired the Sullivan’s for anyone they needed ‘disposing of.’ And while most people think of the jobs they did on rats, or rival mobs, the most common jobs they got were mistresses and wives. But nobody talks about those, nobody remembers them. Beaten, stabbed, and shot, this has been the fate of countless forgotten women in this neighborhood, in Falcone’s neighborhood, in the Yakuza territory, in the cartel.” Maeve has gone somewhere in her mind. Her eyes look distant and her hands move blindly around the cards. Shuffling. 

_Shannon, Kayleigh, Fiona, Imogen, Dierdra._

But they weren’t beaten, stabbed, or shot, and you’re about to remind her of this when she starts to speak again, “At some point, I’m not sure when, the police started to notice these deaths. Sullivans were getting put away left and right and they had to rethink their strategy for getting rid of the women that they’d grown sick of or could be a liability. For a while, poisoning worked, until technology caught up and got better at detecting it.” 

“So you think that these women were killed because they were somehow involved with members of the Irish mafia?” 

“I’m _saying_ that before Fiona went to university, she had a secret boyfriend and he wasn’t too nice to her. Her ma would tell me that she would come home sometimes with expensive jewelry, or designer shoes, or bruises on her arm, or marks around her neck. I’m _saying_ that everyone knows that my nephew Seameus and Dierdra were high school sweethearts and rumor had it that even though he’s married and has kids he often went running to her bed. Seameus is Sean Riley’s right hand man. I’m _saying_ that Lucky’s, the place where Imogen danced, is owned by Mickey Sullivan.” As she’s been talking, the fire in her voice is growing. The hair on your arms stands on end. 

“So, you’re suggesting that these women are dead because of a connection with members of organized crime?” You ask. 

“I’m not _suggesting_ anything, I know. You came here for truth, and I’m giving it to you.” 

You chew on the inside of your bottom lip and stare unseeingly at the surface of the table. What she’s saying makes sense. Intimate partner violence is a leading cause of death in young men and women, and fatal escalation tends to increase in areas that embrace a culture of toxic masculinity. And while you don’t pretend to understand the culture in an illegal gun smuggling syndicate, you’re willing to bet they don’t typically embrace progressive views on human rights. 

Unfortunately, even if what she’s saying is true, it’s useless unless you can prove _how_ it’s happening.

“Do you have any idea _how_ they’re doing it?” 

Maeve inclines her head to you meaningfully, “That’s not my area of expertise, love.” 

You frown and she reaches forward and holds her hand out for yours. When you put your palm in hers, she squeezes it reassuringly, “But I have no doubts you’ll figure it out. I have faith you’ll be able to tell their story.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” You lament.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul._
> 
> _\- Judy Garland._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> dranks, folk music, fluff, so many looks (SO MANY), probs some unhealthy attachment issues on both sides, teasing about body parts, toxic masculinity, angst, arguably too much dialogue, definitely too many warnings

By the time you’re leaving The Druid’s Den, it’s twilight. 

You were seeking direction on your visit and that’s what you recieved. True, you’re no homicide detective, but maybe the Bat will be able to do something with this information. This makes you elated and, oddly, eager to see him. 

“You seem a bit… _chipper_ for someone who’s just spent the past few hours in a witch’s lair talking about murder.” Bruce sounds annoyed, he shoves his hands in his coat pockets. But even he can’t rain on your parade. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. It’s a slow going process so one must savor the little wins when trying to exact justice upon villains, Mr. CEO.” You’re practically skipping beside him down the street where the Mercedes has been parked. 

“You really think you’re some sort of vigilante, don’t you? Didn’t you hear her? You’ve got people _following you_.” 

You round on him, halting him on the sidewalk, then look around in an exaggerated manner, “I don’t see anyone following me. Do you?” You don’t wait for him to answer before jabbing a finger at him and announcing, “I’m not going to let you ruin this for me. And, lucky for you, I’m in such a good mood, I’m not even going to ask you about what the hell you were on about back there, treating that old woman like a criminal.” 

He scratches the back of his neck in frustration and puffs out a cloudy breath, “Were you not _listening?_ The Riley’s _are_ criminals.” 

Reaching forward, you clutch his hands in yours, then tilt your head to the side, forcing him to look into your eyes, “Maybe Maeve’s a criminal, maybe what she told me was bullshit, maybe it was nothing, maybe all of this is just going to cause a bigger mess for me in the end. But can you _please_ just let me have one night to celebrate this. _One_ night to… I don’t know, just pretend all my suspicions, all my observations, have been justified. That they all weren’t for nothing. Just _one_ night. Please? I need it.” 

The corners of his mouth are tight and you can tell he’s holding back a smirk. You jut out your bottom lip dramatically and _viola!_ you succeed in cracking him. 

“Alright, Quince,” he concedes, pivoting you out next to him while keeping ahold of your hand, swinging it playfully between the two of you as you walk down the sidewalk, “let’s celebrate. Where to? There’s a fantastic absinthe bar on the Upper West Side.” 

“Absinthe bar?” you wrinkle your nose picturing an ultra trendy 20’s style, art nouveau inspired bar. You can’t imagine an absinthe bar would have the comfort food that you require for properly celebrating. Once again, your desire to stuff your face is your primary motive for not wanting to go. 

Serendipitously, you walk into a cloud of mouthwatering scents that make your stomach roar right at that moment. It smells like Sunday dinner at your nana’s house back in Smallville, of meat and potatoes. Of your brand of _comfort food._

When you locate the source of the smell, you point to the pub that the Mercedes is parked in front of, declaring, “There. That’s where I want to celebrate.” 

“No.” 

You stop and try to keep your face straight as you lay down the law, “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, I must’ve misspoke. That’s where I am _going_ to celebrate.” 

Shaking your hand from his, you walk a few steps closer to the entrance, you can hear music coming from inside. The name of the pub is spelled out in big, brass, typewriter letters above the black door, ‘ _DULAMAN._ ’ 

“I’d really like your company,” you call to Bruce from over your shoulder as you take another step, “But if it’s not _fancy_ enough for you, I’m not gonna force you.” 

Then you turn and walk with a clipped pace the rest of the way. It’s frigid outside and the warm golden glow coming from the latticed windows of the pub draws you in like a moth to a flame. When you’re just about to grab the handle of the door, Bruce’s arm shoots out to open it for you, causing you to bloom with joy. You didn’t realize how much you truly cared if he stayed or went until this moment. 

In order to get to the door, he’s had to reach around you, arranging the two of you so that you’re nestled into the crook of his arm. When you twist slightly at the waist to look up at him, you register how intimate the position is.

To compensate for the havoc this wrecks on your heart, you make an effort to brush it off by teasing him. Forcing your mouth into a shit-eating grin, you say, “I knew you couldn’t resist.” 

He takes the bait, arranging his face into mock exasperation, “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that, Quince?” 

“You know, that’s not the first time someone has told me that today.” Though after your time in The Druid’s Den with Maeve, and the long boring meeting, your encounter earlier this morning with Ron feels like a week ago. 

“I’m not surprised.” Bruce chuckles while gently guiding you into the pub with a hand at the middle of your back. 

As it’s Friday night, the pub is busy, so you and Bruce settle for seats at the bar. After you tuck in to the burgundy leather upholstered bar stool, you spend some time taking in your surroundings. 

Dulaman is nothing fancy, it’s exactly what you’d expect for a bar by the docks. The trendy components - exposed brick, weathered hardwood floors, rusted corrugated ceiling tiles, and a chalkboard listing the special and what’s on tap - had clearly been born long before they were fashionable. All in all, it is simply an unaffected Irish pub with no frills, and no kitsch. 

In the corner, obscured by the crowd of people, you catch glimpses of the four person folk band playing. From what you can tell, the band consists of a fiddle, a tin whistle, guitar, and a bodhran. They’re playing what sounds like traditional folk songs, though you can barely hear them over the din. 

As per usual, Bruce sticks out like a sore thumb. Does he always have to look so… rich? You try to picture what he’d look like in a flannel and beanie, with some scruff, grungy jeans, and work boots. Though the image your mind conjures is a gratifying one that you’ll no doubt be using in future daydreams, you don’t think he’d be able to fool this crowd, not with that expensive smile of his. 

Fortunately, the patrons of the pub don’t seem to notice nor care that a man who arrived in a Mercedes is in their midst. Everyone appears to be friendly (or drunk) and, other than the old bartender with a thick Irish accent who you order drinks and food from, the two of you are pretty much left alone. 

After a few sips of whiskey to loosen your tongue, and a few bites of the scrumptious deep fried boxty (which the menu says is a potato pancake) appetizer you ordered to quell your hanger, you broach the topic of Bruce’s behavior again.

“So, what was up with you back there with Maeve? Why were you being so…,” you gaze toward the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar, as if you’ll find the word you’re searching for there. The old Irish barkeep catches your eye and beams genially at you, one of his canines is capped with a silver crown. You return the smile and then look back to Bruce, “ _Unfriendly_. Why were you being so unfriendly?” 

He takes a drink of his beer, then sets it down and shrugs, “I guess I didn’t really dress for going to the East Side docks today.” 

Though you understand his meaning, you take the opportunity to tease him, “What do you usually wear to the docks? Your captain’s hat and nautical suit?” 

He nudges you and laughs. 

As soon your stomach sparkles calm down enough that you can think clearly, you realize he didn’t quite answer your question, “But what does your obscenely expensive suit have to do with how you were acting toward Maeve?” 

Again, he uses this moment, after your question, to take a gulp of his beer. You watch his profile, wondering if he’s using this to stall, to think about an answer. When he’s done, he asks, “Wasn’t it you who pointed out that I tend to stick out in… _unsavory_ neighborhoods, making myself a target? Or was that the other forensic pathologist who I go to get late night street tacos with?” 

You raise your eyebrows, “The _other_ one, you say? How many other forensic pathologists have you got on deck there, Mr. Wayne?” 

“Is that _jealousy_ I’m detecting, Quince?” 

“Yes,” you admit with a smirk that you know is nowhere near as formidable as his, “but the jealousy is mostly over the tacos. I’m always jealous when someone who’s not me is eating tacos.” 

Right at that moment, the bartender places the shepherd's pie you’d ordered between the two of you. Bruce had ordered it to share when the bartender informed the two of you that it usually fed at least two and he was right, it was _massive._

In sync you both take a bite, close your eyes and make noises of appreciation. It’s good. No, it’s not just good; it’s sublime. It’s the quintessential example of your type of comfort food, hitting all the right receptors on your tongue: rich, salty, buttery, sweet. 

The look on Bruce’s face tells you, he’s on the exact same page you are, prompting you to gloat, “And you called this an _unsavory_ neighborhood.” His responding chuckle is muffled by his mouthful of food. 

Following this exchange, there’s a prolonged silence while you both stuff your faces with the delicious, hearty, artery clogging meal, playfully fighting over particularly delicious morsels with your utensils. It’d been Bruce to suggest you share the shepherd’s pie and it thrilled you. 

Perhaps it’s a bit Norman Rockwell of you, but you view food sharing as a quintessential display of affection. You’d never share food with someone unless you considered them close. On the other hand, if someone you were close to refused to share food with you, you’d be affronted. You’d even broken up with your high school boyfriend for refusing to let you taste the flavor of ice cream he’d gotten at Baskin Robbins. Okay, maybe you’d broken up with him because you were going to different universities, but the ice cream thing made it _way_ easier. 

This thought gives you pause, you sit back and scrutinize Bruce while drinking down the rest of your drink. As you watch him, you’re thinking those same... unfriendly thoughts you had when you watched him eat tacos. You’re reflecting about how much you’ve grown to like Bruce. Although, ‘like’ doesn’t seem to do this tightening in your chest is justice. 

You cherish whatever this is that you have with him. Not just the friendship you two have developed, but what’s underneath, lurking, left unsaid. And at some point, you’re not sure when, your little crush on him has turned into something else... but what? 

_Longing._

_‘The pink camellia tells me that you’re longing for someone.’_ Is what Maeve said to him. 

“What do you think of Maeve’s whole card trick thing?” ‘Card trick’ probably isn’t the best way to describe what she did, but you’re not sure what else to call it.

Bruce raises an eyebrow in question and you elaborate, “I mean, do you think it was all bullshit?” 

Predictably, he reaches for his beer. You frown, wishing he’d just tell you what he thought, tell you the first thing that came to his mind. Setting down his mug he clears his throat and answers, “I don’t think it was all bullshit. What she said about you seemed pretty accurate.”

Emboldened by the whiskey still warming the back of your throat you ask, “What about you? She said that you were ‘longing’ for someone?” His eyes dart to yours, his expression is unreadable, making you vulnerable under his gaze. Too vulnerable. 

Exposed. 

In a feeble effort to cover up, you try to pass it off as a joke, “She probably just meant you were longing for some decent food, right? With that suit on she could tell you only eat at swanky _‘absinthe bars’_ with like, tiny heirloom beet salads and bacon scented foams and stuff.” 

But for some reason, Bruce doesn’t take the bait this time. For some reason, he refuses to play pretend with you this time. 

The look he focuses on you is so intense, it’s bordering on severe. The muscles in his jaw jump as if he’s fighting a fierce internal opponent. Your stomach drops and a feverish sensation originating from your chest begins to crawl up your neck.

The energy that’s pulsating between the two of you has polymerized and created a sort of forcefield, cocooning the two of you away from the rest of the pub. Because of this, neither of you hear one of the members of the band make an announcement, telling everyone to join in, nor do you register the initial stages of bedlam that commence at the first few measures of the song being played. 

It isn’t until the forcefield is obliterated, by a slurring ruddy-faced man slinging an arm over Bruce’s shoulders, that you become aware of anything outside of each other. 

“I’ll tell me ma when I go home, the boys won’t leave the girls alone.” The man begins singing loudly and off tune. His voice is but one in an impromptu choir made up of what seems like every single other person in the bar. Bruce shrugs him off, but laughs goodnaturedly. 

You sit up straighter, craning your neck to get a better understanding of what is causing the hubbub, coming to the conclusion that it’s a drinking song. Some people have gotten up and started dancing wherever they can find room, some are swaying, arms around each other's shoulders, others clapping along to the beat, but they’re all singing. Their enthusiasm is contagious, and it infuses into you. 

Without even consciously doing so, you’ve started lightly clapping to the beat. You feel a tap on your forearm, it’s the bartender. He’s noticed that you don’t know the words and he leans over the bar to coach you through the chorus the first time, showing you how to tap your glass (which he’s refilled with whiskey) on the bar three times to the part that goes ‘ _one, two, three._ ’

When the chorus comes around a second time, you’re stumbling your way through with his encouragement, and by the third time you’re ready. You puff out your chest, and bellow along with the rest of the bar when he gives you the signal: 

“ _She is handsome, she is pretty, she’s the belle of Gotham city. She is courtin’ one, two three. Please, won’t you tell me who is she?”_

But then you look at Bruce, a proud smile lighting up your face, and everything stops. 

The music and voices are drowned out by rushing blood in your ears. Your own voice halts, because you’ve forgotten how to inhale. And even your heart stutters for a beat. The forcefield around the two of you is back up in record time, because there is this look in his eyes, a look that speaks louder than any words. 

It’s a starved sort of look, a desperate sort of look, a… _longing_ sort of look. 

Acting on sheer instinct, you grab a handfuls of his crisp oxford shirt at his abdomen and yank him to you, bringing his lips to yours. 

The first time you kissed Bruce Wayne, it was light and bubbly, like the champagne still on your tongues. You were strangers who were seeking nothing more than a frivolous, fleeting, meaningless connection. 

This time, when you’re kissing Bruce Wayne, it is anything but light and bubbly. It’s substantial and nourishing. He threads his fingers into your hair and wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His mouth presses against yours, consuming and needy. You meet him there, at his level, parting your lips for him with a sigh, giving more of yourself to him, wanting him to take it. 

This time, when you’re kissing Bruce Wayne, you’re not kissing a stranger. You’re kissing someone who you’ve laughed with, shared secrets with, conspired with, dreamt about, shared food with. You’re kissing someone who’s a friend. It’s the opposite of frivolous, it’s momentous, profound, meaningful, and all other antonyms of the word. 

With every flex of his fingers, movement of his lips, or slide of his tongue, the sutures that are binding you to him are tightening. 

The hooting and hollering of the patrons around you, punctures the forcefield and simultaneously you pull away from each other. While you both catch your breath, you smile sheepishly at each other. Like any self-respecting adult, you have the decency to act a little ashamed for getting so carried away in public. But Bruce keeps you held against him with his arm around your waist, just as unwilling to let the moment die as you are. 

At first you assume the vibrating on your lower abdomen is just the next level of lusty sparklers being lit in your belly. However, when Bruce moves away from you, and reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone you realize it’s an incoming call. He looks down at the screen, frowns, then back up to you. 

“I have to take this.” His tone is regretful. 

“Of course!” You say a little too-enthusiastically, while batting away the nonsensical disappointment that is forming a pit in your stomach. 

_What were you expecting? That he open his suit jacket, let you slip inside with him, and take you everywhere with him?_

(You refuse to acknowledge the tiny, ridiculous part of your brain that is screaming, _YES!!_ to this in the corner.)

Bruce slides his index finger along one side of your jaw while his thumb traces a path from your chin to the side of your mouth. Everywhere that his skin touches yours tingles, as if he’s broken your cutaneous touch receptors. 

_It’s too much. He’s too much._ You look up at his face. You like it too much. It’s not healthy. 

“I’ll only be a minute.” And before walking away, he stoops down and presses a kiss to the top of your head. It’s a total relationship move, like something you’d watched your dad do to your mom hundreds of times. 

And you like it. 

You like it _too much._

_What now? Are you like ‘In A Relationship?’ Aren’t you leaving ASAP?_

The unfun, responsible part of your mind asks the worst questions. You down your refilled glass of whiskey in record time, eager to drown them. 

“Wow, Smallville, you sure can drink like an Irishman.” Connor McFaden’s whiney voice is as welcome as an ice cube down the back of your shirt. 

The coroner has made himself comfortable in the seat Bruce was in not moments before and he could not be more different than the man he replaced. Where Bruce is tall, lean, well-muscled, and wanted, Connor is short, stocky, and _extremely_ unwanted. In addition, the prickling Connor induces in your skin is that of irritation, not desire. 

“I heard you you were in my neck of the woods, Smallville,” he continues without your encouragement, “but I gotta say, I was floored seein’ you cozied up with Bruce motherfuckin’ Wayne.” 

This gets your attention, you twist in the stool to face him, “You _heard_ I was here? Who’d you hear that from?” 

He shrugs, “It’s a small neighborhood.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him, reading his message loud and clear: Connor McFaden is still connected to his roots with the Irish mafia. While you can’t say this surprises you, what does surprise you is that he has the balls to insinuate as much. He must think you really are nothing, that you really are powerless - and honestly, you’re not sure he’s wrong. Something you’d been trying to forget before he’d come along. 

“If you’re done,” you sweep your hand out in a _shoo_ -ing motion, “you’re in someone’s seat. So if you could go before he gets back, that’d be great.” 

Rage flashes in his beady eyes. _There’s that scrappy badger._

“Actually, I came over here to tell you somethin’, _Smallville_ ,” he says your nickname like it makes him want to vomit, “but before I do, I need to make one thing clear: This is _my_ neighborhood, and you and Mr. Wayne are just visitors here. You say this is his seat, but he’s in _my_ neighborhood, this is _my_ seat, as is _that one_ ,” he looks pointedly down at yours, “and all the rest of them in this pub. I’m lettin’ him sit in this seat. Understand?” 

With an overexaggerated gasp you put a hand on his arm sympathetically. He looks down at it, brow furrowed in confusion, “Oh my god, Connor,” you lower your voice and lean in as if you’re talking about something sensitive, “I’m so sorry about your penis. I mean, I always knew it wasn’t exactly... _sizable_ , but I guess I just didn’t realize how _tiny_ it must be until now. Thank you for coming over and making it so obvious. This helps me to understand you so much better and I’ll try to be sympathetic towards it going forward.” 

Over the course of your long-winded, unprofessional, unoriginal, immature insult Connor has turned from confused to incensed. He’s practically twitching over it, his face is bright red, and his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll pull a muscle. 

It’s _so_ satisfying. 

With a triumphant smirk, you move to turn back to the bar, but are stopped by his hand. He wraps it around your bicep and squeezes tight, so tight you can’t stop the, “ _Ow!_ ” that tumbles out of your mouth. 

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He’s, quite literally, spitting mad. As in, all over your face, making you flinch as droplets of his saliva splatter on your skin with every syllable he utters, “Just so you know: you’re nothin’. You have no idea, do you? I could have you and that smartass mouth of yours taken out like _that_.” He snaps in front of your face as he says the last word. 

Whether what Connor is saying is true or not, your survival mode has kicked on and you keep your mouth wired shut. Satisfied with this, he releases your arm and continues, “My sources tell me that you spent quite a bit of time in the back room of Maeve’s today.” 

You rub your arm where he was holding it, and you know you shouldn’t, but you don’t want him to think he’s the only one who knows things, “Oh, you mean your _mother’s_ place?” 

Though his jaw ticks, he doesn’t snap again, “Ya. And as her _son_ , I’m here to tell you that she’s been diagnosed with dementia. You shouldn’t believe anythin’ she says.” 

“And as someone who graduated _medical school_ , I’m here to tell you that I saw no signs of dementia.” You know that it’s very possible that Maeve has dementia. It’s a progressive disease that has variable expressivity, but you have an inkling that Connor is lying and you’re throwing all caution to the wind. Why?

Because fuck him. That’s why. 

The coroner looks on the verge of losing it again, but doesn’t have the chance to because at this exact moment Bruce comes back. 

It’s both beyond gratifying and incredibly frustrating to watch Connor completely transform in front of Bruce. Like the little weasel of a man he is, he slips into an over-the-top friendly version of himself, all smiles and laughs. 

Bruce, however, is not buying it. The icy glare he’s directing toward the coroner is so overpowering that it reduces the shorter man to a stuttering mess as he walks away.

Watching Connor’s pitiful retreat, you fan your face and announce, “Well, as my mama would say, that was hotter than asphalt in July.” But when you look back to Bruce, you deflate. 

The Bruce who left you with a sweet kiss on the top of your head is not the same Bruce who is standing in front of you now. This Bruce is stiff, uncomfortable, closed off. 

_What changed? What was on the other end of that phone call? Did I imagine the chemistry between us before?_

You want to grab him, to make him tell you that it wasn’t pretend, that you didn’t imagine it. To beg him to hold you and kiss you like he did before, like he needed you. Like it was _you_ he was longing for. 

Instead, you just stare at him, paralyzed and dumbfounded. 

His face is a mask. He betrays nothing. 

After several beats, he clears his throat and looks down at the floor, putting his hands in his pockets, “I need to go to work. If you’re ready to leave now, I’ll have Alfred drop you off on my way. If you want to stay a bit longer, I’ll call a cab and have Alfred wait for you until you’re ready to go.” 

The wind has been knocked out of you, and you’re beginning to feel nauseous. 

“I think I’m ready to go.” Your response is robotic. In truth, everything you do over the next twenty minutes is robotic. 

You follow him out robotically, sit in the back seat of the Mercedes as still as a robot, and then, after a robotic “Thank you,” you exit robotically. You remain an unfeeling android as you climb the stairs, unlock the door to your apartment. 

It isn’t until you close the door and lock it behind you that you allow yourself to become human again - that you let the disappointment expand painfully in your chest, and that you let yourself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll Tell My Ma," is the drinking song they're singing.   
> Dulaman = Irish for a type of edible seaweed. 
> 
> Also, COVID doesn't occur in my imaginary world. Hence, crowded pubs and food sharing - things we're all (rightfully) terrified of now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shame is the most powerful, master emotion. It’s the fear that we’re not good enough._
> 
> _\- Brene Brown_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> depression, mention of an overdose, pulling a bullet out of a head, overall feelings of hopelessness and melodramatic angst, pseudo-philosophical conversations with death, Enter Sandman

There are events that are so momentous, so disruptive to the order of life, or so traumatic that they temporarily change the way time is measured. It’s definitely melodramatic to describe what happened with Bruce as such, nonetheless, this is what you do. You start using ‘after the kiss’ (atk) as units to measure the passing of time. 

When you wake up the next morning, your head throbbing from your inflamed sinuses, it’s not simply Saturday morning, it’s ‘one day atk.’ 

You shuffle out of bed and pop a few acetaminophen for your poor noggin. Your heartache following the events at Dulaman was formidable - too formidable for one meaningless kiss. 

_But was it meaningless?_

Squeezing your eyes shut, you drive the question from your head. The conclusion you came to merely hours ago, after shedding all your tears until you felt hollow is: it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether it was meaningless or not, what was or wasn’t happening between you and Bruce doesn’t matter. It’s a drop in the bucket of meaning and you’re not going to spend one more second fretting, or hurting, or _crying_ over it. 

Of course, that’s utter bullshit, and you know it the second you think it. You’re going to spend countless seconds fretting over it, fretting over _him_. 

But for now, you compel yourself to rally. It’s the weekend and you’ve got shit to do. Your apartment is in need of a good, deep clean, you need to go grocery shopping, you’re trying to solve a bunch of homicides, and you have a betta fish to tend to for god’s sake! 

You just don’t have time to be thinking about impulsive, passionate kisses. There’s no time to zone out recalling how you could feel the heat from Bruce’s abdomen under your knuckles where you gripped his shirt. No time to wonder what it would be like to slip your hands under that shirt and touch him, to feel the solid ridges of muscle under your fingers. 

_Ugh!_

This is when you know you’re going to need to actively combat your wandering mind if you’re going to get through the day. So you put on some headphones and listen to a Brene Brown podcast while you clean. 

Three and a half hours into your continuous pep-talk, while you’re scrubbing your tub, you’re feeling empowered. You’re not about to let Brene down! You deserve some answers, god dammit! 

After snapping off your gloves, you pull your phone out of your back pocket, sit back on your heels on the mat outside of the tub, and send Bruce the following text: _Hi. I want to talk about what happened last night. Are you available?_

You’re proud of yourself. You fought your urge to add emojis or make a joke to lighten the mood, to make yourself more palatable. It’s stiff and formal compared to your usual correspondence, but you want him to know you’re not willing to brush it off. You mean business. 

Though as the minutes tick by with no response, that pride starts to dissolve into panic. 

You decide to call him. No answer. 

You text him again: _Hello?_ No answer. 

And that’s when you start cycling through, what feels like, the stages of grief. 

Over the next four hours you jump around between bargaining, and denial before finally ending the night deep into depression. You mute him and start watching the first season of _Outlander_ through your steady stream of tears. 

The next day, two days atk, you stay in this state. You wake up on the couch to a tapping at your window. It’s a raven perched on the fire escape. The whole day, you are sedentary. You don’t move other than to press play or pause on the show, use the bathroom, or shovel cold leftovers into your face over the sink. 

Three days atk, you wake up, still on the couch, to the beeping of your alarm coming from your bedroom. After your trek in the dark to turn it off, you yawn and stretch your way to the bathroom. For someone who barely moved the day before, your body feels as sore as if you’d started lifting weights. 

When you check your phone while brushing your teeth, the little red notification on the green message app tells you you have a text. It’s from Bruce, sent fifteen minutes before your alarm went off: _Sorry, Quince. Work has been insane lately. But don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten our arrangement! I’m sending Alfred to take you to work and pick you up so that Ron still thinks we’re an item. I promise to call you as soon as things start to chill out around here._

With this, your depression is effectively murdered by your fury. You quickly respond: _Tell Alfred not to bother. I’ll take the train._ And then block him. 

One good thing about your rage is that it cuts your time getting ready for work in half. Who knew that being so angry could make you move so much more efficiently? 

However, even though you’re leaving earlier than usual, you see the Mercedes parked in front of your building from the lobby. Your stomach drops, and you put on your hood, zip up your parka all the way to right under your nose, cram your hands into your pockets, and walk out. Refusing to look at the Mercedes as you pass, no matter how badly you wanted to. 

Working helps you to switch your mind. It’s difficult to maintain a level of anger and self-pity when you’re doing an autopsy on a twenty year old who, you discover, died of an accidental overdose. Nothing like being at the OCME for a few hours to make you realize how lucky you are to have the problems you do.

Unfortunately, the feeling doesn’t last long. While you’re finishing up your paperwork, Ron comes in to tell you that he has you scheduled the rest of the week working graves. Working graves, you know, is an unofficial declaration of being on Ron’s shit list. Medical examiners aren’t typically scheduled to work nights, the usual protocol is a rotating on call list, just in case there’s a particularly suspicious case - like Emily Sakai’s on New Year’s Eve. So, when Ron’s trying to make a statement, he’ll _schedule_ a ME to come in for graves as a punishment. 

This has you leaving work in a bad mood all over again, you suspect Connor McFaden has been in Ron’s ear, not wanting you to intercept any further suspicious sudden cardiac deaths. 

Seeing the Mercedes outside the OCME when you’re leaving exacerbates your foul mood. You walk the opposite direction to avoid it, adding a whole five blocks to loop around to the train station for your commute home. By the time you get home, you’re too grumpy to do anything but take a shower and go to bed - at least this time you’re sleeping in your actual bed instead of the couch. Baby steps. 

On the fourth day atk, the raven, who you think must’ve made a nest on your fire escape, wakes you again by tapping on the window. 

_And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting…_

Whenever ravens dared to roost in your nana’s yard, she’d sit out on her back porch and scare them away with her pellet gun. “Can’t have the ravens ‘round here, sunshine,” she’d say to you when you’d protest, “They’re smarter than they look, the wily bastards, and they’re harbingers of death.”

Now, as you think back on this and look into the beady eyes of the raven, you feel a kinship to the tiny raptor. For you have also been told, on more than once occasion, that you are smarter than you look. Plus, since it is your job to declare cause of death, you’re basically a professional harbinger of death. 

Even though he woke you up when you should be sleeping in because you start your grave shift at six pm tonight, you add birdseed to your shopping list.

_Do ravens like birdseed?_

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

The silver linings to your graveyard ‘punishment’ that Ron has thrust on you are more plentiful than you initially realized. 

For starters, you pretty much have free reign of the office. You can look up anything from the database without wondering if Dr. Kim is looking over your shoulder, or if Ron is going to come around the corner. The only other living person on the premises, other than the security guards in the front lobby and manning the gate around back, is the night mortuary tech. 

Which brings you to the second silver lining: you get to work with Mari. 

_Cross, over, go under, pull. Cross, over, go under, pull._

“He seems like a dick though, no?” 

Your hands stop moving and you glance up at the tech, eyebrow raised. You’d retrieved the bullet from the skull of the man on your table and were just finishing stitching him back up. The decedent, Jose Luis Sanchez, was only eighteen years old - just a baby. The report you’d been given was that he’d been shot while breaking into the home of a retired police officer. Sanchez was unarmed. 

“Who? Him?” You nod toward the body on the table, “Or the man who is probably being awarded a medal of honor for killing him?” 

“ _Yeesh_.” Even though you can’t see her black painted lips from behind the mask, you can hear the grin in her voice, “And I thought you were supposed to be the doe-eyed peppy one around here.” 

You sigh and continue to thread the needle into the boy’s scalp, glancing at the tattoo of a jaguar on his neck. “I’m just… I don’t know. Do you think that justice is a myth? Do you think that because humans are descended from aggressive chimps instead of peaceful bonobos we are doomed to live a life of violence with one group always trying to push the others down?” 

_Cross over, go under, pull._

“I know that throughout history, when the illusion of justice is shattered, the body count begins to rise. But occasionally that’s what the illusion demands - death to a broken system.” 

Again, you look up from your work to look at Mari. You’d been expecting another sarcastic comment. She’s standing guard over your stainless steel table of tools, waiting for your next order, and once your eyes connect to her strange black ones, she shakes herself a little like she forgot where she was and adds, “But no, when I said ‘he seems like a dick,’ I was talking about Bruce Wayne.” 

“Oh.” You focus on closing off the stitches and nod vaguely, “Yeah. I guess he is kind of a dick.” 

You hadn’t _meant_ to spill every single detail about what had happened between you and Bruce to Mari the moment you saw her, it’d just kind of happened. There was even a point while you were talking to her that you tried to stop, but you couldn’t. It was as if you needed to let it out and your body was taking control of the situation.

“I have to ask,” she asks, wringing the scissors in her blue-gloved hands, you hold your hands out for them and she places them in your palm, “what do _you_ think of the alleged mafia involvement of deaths?” 

Yes. Unfortunately, in your word-vomit you’d told her about the strange trip to The Druid’s Den and how Maeve had told there was mafia involvement in the unexplained sudden cardiac deaths. 

“I don’t know,” you cut the excess threads and hand them to Mari. She’s already ready with the alcohol wipes. Although you don’t need to be as sterile as you would with a live body, you always finish off your sutures by cleansing them with alcohol wipes, as if you were worried about infection. It’s cathartic to you, a closing ritual, if you will. You’re providing the last moment this person will be handled like a living person on this planet. 

Standing back, you look at the young man’s face. He looks so peaceful, like he could be sleeping. His skin smooth, like a boy’s still, his thick dark lashes resting on his high cheekbones. Will he have justice? Doubtful. But at least you know the end of his story. 

What about Emily, Imogen, Fiona, and the twenty two others on the corkboard in your living room? Will you ever know the end of theirs? Will they ever get justice? 

When Mari comes back from taking the body into storage, you say, “Let’s say it’s the mafia…,” 

You’ve both taken off your gowns, gloves and masks, so this time when she twists at the waist to look back at you, you see her smile as she encourages you to, “Go on…,” 

“Let’s say it’s the mafia, or the cartel, or the yakuza or all of them or… whatever. Even if we _know_ it’s them, even if we know the who, we don’t know the how. Nothing matters until we know the _how_.” This is essentially what Batman said he needed you for and you can’t help but feel like you’re failing not only him but all the victims and yourself. 

“Well, you have to have _some_ idea how.” Mari is all intrigue, she pulls a work stool out for you to sit on and grabs the one from the examination station next to you, rolling it over so that she can sit closer. 

You shake your head, but she doesn’t look disappointed. Instead she demands, “Tell me.” 

“What?” 

“Your hypotheses. Tell them to me. The ones floating around in that big brain of yours. The ones that you keep dismissing because they seem too ridiculous.” 

You huff out a surprised laugh, but concede, “You want the one that would make the most sense medically or the one that is impossible?” 

“Both. We’ve got time.” 

She’s right. Having the whole building to yourselves, without any distractions or meetings or having to wait for anyone, makes your working time fly by. 

So you relent, “Medically, the best I can come up with in my research on databases is a hemangioma of some kind, a non-malignant tumor attached to the wall of the ascending aorta. I’m thinking maybe it could have grown until it somehow perforated the wall.” 

“In the exact same place in all of the victims?” 

“Exactly,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “and I would think there would be at least some additional evidence if this were the case. Like cardiac stress due to a narrowing vessel, and if it were able to puncture the aorta, I’m sure there would be remnants of it on the gross exam or microscopic biopsy. There’s just so many pieces missing every way I look at it. Too many pieces missing.” 

“So, tell me your impossible hypotheses?” 

“I don’t know…? That some aliens with advanced technology came down and inserted a magical indetectable, inert biological polymer that once triggered would rapidly grow, perforate the aorta, and then dissolve into the body without a trace?” You smile sheepishly and shrug letting her know you realize how absurd this sounds. Then add, “Either that, or a hex?” 

Mari laughs, “If you decide to pitch that alien theory to Ron, let me know. I’d pay to watch that exchange.” 

You have to admit, the idea is tempting. If nothing else but to see the man’s moustache twitch. 

“Have you reexamined their medical histories?” She asks. 

You nod. 

“Including the surgical histories?” 

This gives you pause. “I… haven’t. But I think that’s because I usually chart any surgical procedures I observe while doing my exam.” 

Mari sucks her teeth and shrugs, “It might be worth looking into? I mean, it can’t hurt right?” 

“No. It can’t hurt.” Nothing can hurt a stagnant investigation. 

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

That night (rather, morning, since you get off at six in the morning, go home and crash) is when the dreams start. 

They always follow the same sequence of events. 

You start in a desert at night, sitting in a crater. The sky an inky black splattered with sparkling stars. Other than the sky, it’s just you and the gray sand. You hike up out of the crater and head toward a strip of light and once you’re in it, you turn to see the Earth in the sky above you. Swirling white, beautiful blue, and terrestrial browns and greens. 

It’s so breathtaking that it takes you several moments to realize that you’re on the Moon. But the instant you make the connection, the surface of the Moon transforms. The crater that you’re in becomes a sort of lunar-saucer, moving you briskly through the sky. The earth vanishes and the stars in the sky grow larger, widening and flattening until they are biconcave discs moving along with you. The black sky turns a velvety, deep blood red. Quite literally blood red because you’re sitting on a space rock travelling through a blood vessel, as if you’re in a psychedelic episode of _The Magic School Bus._

You hold on tight, flattening yourself onto the surface of the Moon as you get pumped through the circulation. Into the right atrium, then the ventricle below. Further, to the lungs via the pulmonary arteries, where you watch the deep maroon blood cells hold tightly to molecules of oxygen, flushing brighter red with the joy of molecular completion. You’re returned to the left atrium, down into its associated ventricle. 

Then, when you’re launched out like a rocket into the systemic circulation, you slow. Despite the fact that everything around you is rushing by, making your hair whip around your face, making you sway from the pull of it, your saucer comes to a stop around the root of the ascending aorta. Then, right before you wake up, the Moon embeds itself into the wall. 

Every single time you sleep, for the next five days, you have this dream. It’s part of your new sulking routine in which you go to work all night, come home, leave some food out for your new raven friend, avoid looking at the corkboard while you watch whatever nonsense fluffy show you want, go to bed, then have the dream. 

It is always the same in every way except for one: the man. 

He’s tall and slender, with gaunt hollows in his cheeks, an unwieldy mass of jet hair, and he’s so pale that if he were on a board exam question, your differential diagnosis would be iron deficiency anemia. It’s difficult for you to distinguish much more than this though because he’s always off in the distance, just observing. 

You don’t remember seeing him in the first iteration of the dream, but the second time you have it, you notice him on the Moon with you in the beginning. The third time, you see him in passing while traveling through the valve between the right atrium and ventricle. On the fourth go, he stays with you for most of the journey. 

But it isn’t until the fifth time you have the dream that you speak to him. 

It’s right at the beginning, when you’re sitting in the crater, arms holding your knees to your chest, looking up at the Earth. All the other times you’ve had the dream you didn’t remember you’d had it before. It isn’t until you wake up that you seem to be able to access your short term memory and recall it was the same dream you’d had the previous nights. 

However, this time, the fifth time, you know you’re in the dream the moment from the second you enter it. 

Since you are lucid, you simply transport yourself to the crater that you look at the Earth with and sit down. When you see the man standing at the rim of your little basin, you wave to him and he approaches, gliding down the slope and coming to a stop beside you. 

From here you see that he’s quite handsome, in an otherworldly, inhuman way. His bone structure is severe, his mouth is wide and supple, and underneath the deep V of his sweeping, regal robe, you can see he has some nice muscle definition. His eyes are completely black, with no whites or iris, just a night sky. 

He sits down next to you, mirroring your posture. 

“Hey.” You greet him like you would a coworker that you see everyday, as if this is all a completely mundane experience. When he doesn’t reply you ask, “Can you hear me?” 

He nods once. 

“I was wondering if you could give me any insight into what this is all about?” You gesture around indicating… well, everything around you. 

When, once again, his only reply is a nod, you ask, “Are you… mute or something?” 

One corner of his mouth tips up and he turns his head to look at you, “I am not mute, pathologist.” 

The register of his voice is low, tranquil, and noble, putting you completely at ease. “Well then, who are you? Why are you just watching me all the time? Do you know what all these dreams are about?” 

“You are a curious one,” at this, his small smile falters and he looks away, out into the distance, “you remind me of someone. Someone who used to reside in the very place you live now.” 

“Oh? You mean the neurologist? The one with the dog?” 

His eyes move to yours again, “You know her?” 

You shake your head and bury your fingers in the sand at the sides of your hips. You’re no astronomer, or geologist, but you’re pretty sure the real Moon doesn’t have sand. Yet, the dream Moon does, “I’ve never met her, but I might as well have with how much my neighbor talks about her.” 

A stillness falls between the two of you, and you get the impression that he’s somewhere else, thinking about someone else. Perhaps the neurologist. 

“So,” you pick up a handful and watch it fall through your fingers, “can you tell me anything about why I keep having these dreams? Or who you are?” 

“I am Morpheus, the ruler of The Dreaming.”

“The Dreaming?” 

“The Realm of Dream, where you mortals travel to when you slip into REM. It is where you are currently.” 

You raise a questioning eyebrow, but you don’t let yourself get distracted, you stay focused on what you wanted to ask him in the first place, “Why are you here? Why am I having this dream every night?” 

“I am here because I am like you, I am curious. When not one, but two persons made requests on your behalf to me within a week’s time, I wanted to see you for myself.”

This causes your brow to furrow, “What do you mean people made ‘requests’ on my behalf? Who?” 

“First it was The Bat.” 

This takes you off guard, you sit up straighter, “ _Batman_?” 

Morpheus nods, “The Dark Knight has, in his possession, a token that allows him to have a conference with me. He used it eight days ago, to confer with me in my throne room and requested that I safeguard you. I do not typically do such favors for mortals, however, I am in his debt for a life he helped save over a year ago. A life that is… very precious to me.” 

He gets that same faraway look in his eyes that he had before, and you have to clear your throat to bring him back to the conversation. _What the hell happened with him and the neurologist?_

After a small shake of his head, he continues, “So, I have sent my most trusted servant to keep sentinel over you, a raven who goes by the name of Matthew.” 

“Well slap my ass and call me Sally…,” you murmur. You’re the one who feels far away now, you’re floored. In your real life outside of this dream, there _has_ been a raven living on your fire escape for… _eight days_. 

_Could what this man says be true?_

“Pardon?” 

“Uh…,” you flush when you recall what you’d said and quickly change the subject, “Why would he ask you to keep watch over me? Did something happen to him?” 

It’s not until you say the words out loud that you realize how fearful you are of the answer. That you realize how you’ve been waiting for his visit, wondering if you’d ever see him again, wanting to feel like you weren’t alone in this. 

“He is… occupied elsewhere.” 

A strange twinge of jealousy twists your mouth before you can hide it. Why would he encourage your obsession over these cases and then just leave you high and dry? Why didn’t he just let you go when you wanted to weeks ago? Why do you care that he abandoned you?

_Why is everyone abandoning me..._

“It is not my place to say,” Morpheus’ voice punctures your downward spiral of self-doubt. You sniff and wipe away the tears that escaped with the back of your hand as he continues, “but The Dark Knight is fearful of connection. I have borne witness to his dreams and nightmares, and I know his deepest desires are intimately entwined with his deepest fears.” 

You shoot him a grateful smile and then once again change the subject, your voice shaky with emotion at first, “Anyway, you said two people asked about me. Who was the other one?” 

“My sister came to me five days ago. She rarely asks me for anything, but she wanted me to help guide you in this case - to inspire you. Occasionally, when she thinks someone might be close to stopping some deaths that are wearing on her, she’ll ask me to intervene.” 

“Who is your sister?” 

“Death.” Morpheus says in a matter-of-fact voice. 

“ _Okaaay?_ So you’re telling me that Death is sick of watching these people die, thinks I’m close to solving this, and wanted you to tell me-,” you cut yourself off with a snort and throw out your arms in frustration, “Well, what exactly? That the _Moon_ is killing these people?” 

He frowns and when he speaks he sounds truly regretful, “I apologize, but The Endless are supposedly forbidden from meddling and we have already gone too far. This is all I can offer you.” When he waves his arm out in front of him, you’re no longer looking at the Earth, but at the inside of the aorta, at the end of the dream. 

“Really? This is all you can-,” but then you’re jerked awake by the tapping at your window. 

_Matthew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you reading this as a stand alone:   
> Morpheus is from the Sandman comics, as is his sister Death (Mari). His relationship with "the neurologist" alluded to in this chapter is from the fic Beta & Theta. His relationship to her is not important for this particular fic, but he is part of the DC Universe and is dope af (in my humble opinion).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You have to learn to get up from the table when love is no longer being served._
> 
> \- Nina Simone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> brief descriptions of innards, mood swings, emotions (as per ush), imposter syndrome, blows to MC's self-esteem, references to the movie _Mean Girls_ , OC cameo, a dog named after a _Princess Bride_ character

You storm into your apartment, slamming the door behind you so hard it shakes the walls on either side. Then, after tossing aside your bag, you throw yourself on your couch, bury your head in a pillow and scream a deep guttural, animalistic scream that makes your diaphragm tremble. 

Bruce Wayne is a demon. He’s a villain, a fuckboy, a complete asswipe. 

Bruce Wayne is a cancer. Well, maybe not a cancer, but an oncovirus - a cancer causing virus. 

Without you even noticing, he’d creeped into your cells and made himself at home. He’d changed the very makeup of your genes. It was slow at first, one piece at a time. But then, all at once, he grew. His growth was unregulated, irreversible, wreaking havoc on whole organ systems before he made his malignancy known. And by then it was too late, you were full of him, and excision - if possible - would be painful. 

Let’s back up, shall we? 

When Matthew woke you up, you felt, for the first time in ten days, motivated. You’d decided that you were going to stop avoiding the corkboard. You were going to spend your night off diving back into these cases, looking for patterns, trying to figure out this puzzle. 

_First things first_ , you’d thought after throwing on some sweats, _caffeine!_

The switch in your schedule had left you more exhausted than usual and you’d definitely need something stronger than your usual Earl Grey to get going. Thus, you headed out into the blustery February day and jogged across the street to the bodega. 

You got yourself a large cup of the “High Caffeine” coffee blend that they served all day in a large metal carafe that appeared to be freckled due to the splatters of brown liquid that had accumulated on it. It wasn’t going to be quality coffee, but it was hot and would get the job done, so you didn’t care. Plus, you added in an ample amount of vanilla creamer to hide the flavor anyway. 

When you brought your cup to the counter to pay, the man working the register was doing something in the back and shouted that he’d be with you in a minute. And that’s when you saw it. 

More precisely, that’s when you saw _him._

Bruce motherfucking Wayne, the cancerous rat-bastard, in all his Versace model glory on one of the tabloid covers next to the register. 

He’s walking out of some opulent restaurant, his arm slung around a woman who looks like the spawn of Eva Mendes and Adriana Lima. She’s truly breathtaking in a tiny bodycon dress with perky boobs, legs for days, rocking four inch gold strappy platforms, and (probably) not tripping. The headline reads, “Wayne and Santo This Year’s Powercouple?” with the subtitle, “Billionaire Bruce Wayne looking cozy leaving Upper West Side absinthe bar with supermodel and heiress Rosa Santo.” 

_Absinthe bar?_ If you weren’t already struggling for breath from the acute chest pain you were experiencing, you’d have laughed a bitter humorless laugh.

Abandoning your coffee on the counter, you stormed out of the bodega and back to your apartment, where you are currently screaming into your pillow. 

The pain-induced rage you’re experiencing is next level. It’s Regina George level fury and angst. If you had a Burn Book, you’d have bought that magazine, cut out Bruce’s picture and written: _He is the nastiest skank bitch I’ve ever met. Do not trust him, he is a fugly slut._

You’ve never been one to hold onto anger, which is a real shame because the rage starts to ebb too soon. Leaving you with nothing but the hurt and despair. 

Ron and Connor are right: you are nothing but a stupid, naive girl from Smallville who thought she could play in the big leagues. You must be. It’s the only explanation for how you were able to have convinced yourself that you could ever be _anything_ to Bruce Wayne. To fool yourself into thinking he felt the same. To truly believe he wanted to be your friend. To think that for a moment he _longed_ for you because of what some witchy hippie read on her bizarre botanical tarot cards.

Bruce Wayne is, to quote your mother, “the most eligible bachelor in Gotham.” He longs for supermodels and heiresses, not women who cut open dead bodies. For women who wear impossible shoes with no complaint and look runway ready 24/7, not women who are in scrubs or sweats seventy-five percent of the time. 

He kisses women who taste like absinthe or expensive, exotic fruit foam, not ones who taste like whiskey and potatoes. And yet…

He did kiss you, didn’t he? Sure, you’d been the one who grabbed him and pulled him to you, but you hadn’t imagined his hands on your body, had you? They’d felt possessive and needy... hadn’t they? You hadn’t imagined his hand in your hair, angling your head back so he could sample more of you, had you? 

Or had you simply forgotten all you’d been taught? 

Maybe it was just as your mother often said, “Men are simple as rabbits, baby, they only have three things on their mind: eatin’, pissin’, and fornicatin’.” Could he have been acting on mere instinct? 

The vibrating of your phone from the front pocket of your hoodie has you dragging yourself into a sitting position. Speak of the devil, it’s your mother. 

You know you should take it since you’ve ignored two of her calls within the past week, but you’re in no mood. Since you know you’re going to pay for this, you close your eyes as you hit the ‘silence’’ button on the side of your phone. 

Because seeing the little red icon, representative of the angry voicemail she no doubt left, gives you anxiety, you let it play without listening to it. You promise yourself you’ll listen to it later, when you’re not feeling like a rejected sack of horse manure. 

This is when you notice you have two unread emails in your inbox. You click on the little white and blue envelope icon. 

The first one is from Ron. Subject: (none), body: _I gave you the night of this off specifically so you can attend. Bring Mr. Wayne. His support for the OCME will attract his friends._ The attachment is an invitation to another fancy charity event, this time at the luxury Royal Hotel downtown taking place in two days. 

You roll your eyes. There is absolutely no way you’re going to this excuse for rich people to dress up, pat themselves on the back, and show off their supermodel girlfriends. And, if you _do_ go (which you won’t), you certainly _won’t_ be taking that skank bitch Bruce Wayne. 

Even if Satan himself came up from the depths of hell, sporting a long coat, and a bear fur ushanka and muff set to tell the world hell had indeed frozen over, you still would not invite Bruce Wayne to the charity event. 

“Nope.” You declare out loud in your empty apartment while filing the email into the trash with a swipe of your finger. 

The second email is from Mari. Subject: _That’s Suspicious. That’s Weird._ Body: _Found something you might be interested in. It appears all the decedents had an appendectomy -_

“No they didn’t,” you argue with the email while sitting up straighter to read the remainder of her message, furrowing your brow. 

_Also, eleven nights ago another unexplained aortic dissection came in. She also had an appendectomy._

Your mind starts to race, and you’re not sure what thought to focus on. 

_Another_ SCD by aortic dissection?? 

Appendectomies? All of them? You’re almost one hundred percent positive that the women whose exam’s you’d performed had their appendix intact. But when you open the attachment, your conviction starts to drain. 

It’s a compilation of twenty six scanned medical documents, in which Mari had highlighted in icy blue the word ‘ _Appendectomy’_ on the past surgical history section. 

These documents drag you away from your self-pity over Bruce and shove you headfirst into a black hole of cross referencing, examining the images taken of the abdomen upon autopsy - inside and out. You add a tab to your ever expanding excel workbook to keep things organized and within minutes you have countless tabs open on your browser and images of bodies littering the background of your desktop like a game of 52 pick up. 

Time ceases to exist as you systematically assess each case one by one. 

First, you examine the victim’s photos of their abdomens before incision, searching for any external signs of appendectomies: tiny hairline scars left on the lower and upper right quadrants, and/or navel. 

Next, you look at the photos taken internally, hunting for the appendix, the tiny deflated balloon structure dangling near the end of the junction where the small intestine meets the large. Since the contents of the abdomen in this area are little more than a jumble of wrinkled, visceral peachy-pink, it feels a bit like playing a morbid game of _Where’s Waldo._

But you find them. 

Well, you find _most_ of them. Of the twenty six, only two of them have no appendix that you can find. Of note, the two who appear to be missing their appendix both had their appendectomies in their pre-teen years, while the remaining twenty four had them between ages 19-25. Additionally, both of the two who were missing their appendix had a nondescript, and strange “gallstone procedure” in their early twenties listed in their surgical history that the others didn’t. 

“What the hell…?” You mutter to yourself at least a dozen times as you go through the cases. Especially when you do note the barely visible scars on all the bodies, indicating that they were being cut into, but not for the reason listed on their surgical histories. 

Why then? 

The question is loaded, too loaded for you to wrap your brain around in your state. Because the mere presence of the scars has sent you spiraling again. 

How had you missed them before? True, the scars for laparoscopic surgery are usually very hard to see if the surgeon is skilled. But isn’t this your job - to find and document the miniscule details? Yes, it’s difficult for you and the other ME’s to catalog everything in your overworked state. Is this a sufficient excuse for incompetence? And if so, how many people are slipping through the cracks because of this? 

The sound of shouting from down in the street outside your apartment tugs you out of your black hole. It’s dark outside, and dark in your apartment. Your muscles are stiff and sore. The whole day has passed while you’ve been in the depths of your search. 

You set your laptop on the coffee table, stretch, and then walk over to the window to see the source of the noise. It appears to be nothing more than an argument between a delivery truck driver and a vendor that’s already winding down. 

Short outbursts like this, you’ve found, are common when living in a major metropolitan area, something that you hadn’t had to experience before in Smallville. A thought elicits a wave of homesickness so overwhelming, you clutch your stomach and choke back tears. 

You’d spent most of your life dreaming of living in a big city, solving big important crimes, picturing yourself fulfilled, independent, loving your job. But now here you are, heartbroken, lonely, staring down at a city that never wanted you, that never welcomed you. A city that you’ve fought tooth and nail to get to, only to be chewed up and spit out over and over again. 

There are many words your friends and family would use to describe you: ambitious, stubborn, perhaps a bit neurotic. But none of them would call you gloomy or prone to self-pity. Yet, ever since New Year’s you keep finding yourself in these melancholic states. 

_It’s time._

You sniff, stand up straighter at the thought that had entered your mind unbidden. 

_It’s time to let it go._

You wipe your eyes. If you’re waiting until you solve these deaths to go seek your own bliss, you could be here forever stuck in a job with a boss who treats you like garbage. You could be in this pit for your whole life and never figure out how they died. 

Walking around your apartment, you turn on the lights, and as you do your mood brightens along with it. Determined to stay away from the shadowy depression you’ve temporarily pushed into the periphery, you take a quick shower and put on clean clothes.

During your time in the shower, you’ve decided you’ll do one last thing for the case. You’ll attempt to contact the surgeons who performed the nonexistent appendectomies and relay whatever information you find to Batman. 

The key word being: _attempt._

You’re not going to get sucked back in. You’ll set a limit. If you don’t find out anything or hear from them by the end of March, when your lease is up, then you’ll forget about it. 

Just like you’ll forget about Bruce Wayne. In other words, you won’t forget about it. But you’ll try like hell. 

.  
.  
.

Thirty minutes later, while you’re writing something down on the whiteboard, you hear a knock at the door. 

“Just a minute!” You call over your shoulder. 

You’re more than two thirds of the way through the surgeons and their last names are written in a neat column on the left hand side of the whiteboard. Some of the surgeons did multiple appendectomies, so their names have a number by them in parentheses.

>   
> Tsuki (3)  
> Fengari (4)   
> Ksiezyc   
> Cap  
> Dal (3)  
> Hirha  
> Mahina (2)  
> Mesic  
> 

You’re shuffling through the papers for the last couple of names, when the door is opened behind you. You start and turn to see that it’s just Lizzie, your eldery neighbor who has let herself in (again).

“Christ, Lizzie!” You clutch your chest, “You really can’t just be letting yourself in, even if you have a key. On that note, you shouldn’t have a key without my permission.” 

“Why so jumpy, _muy droga_?” She holds up a paper plate wrapped in tin foil, then sets it on your table, “I just bring golabki, then I leave.”

You can smell the sulfuric scent of cooked cabbage from across the room, but know from experience how delicious the stuffed cabbage bundles of goodness are. 

“Oh, thank you.” 

Her brow furrows in concern while she examines you, “You no look so good. You work too hard. Why all you primetime girls working yourself to early death, huh? 

_Primetime girls._ Your mouth twitches while you hold back a laugh.

She continues, holding her rail-thin arms out in frustration, “What happen to dressing up, eh? What happen to looking sexys?” 

With a mixture of mild horror and great amusement, you watch as she gathers up what you assume to be her boobs hidden under her housecoat and forces them up toward her chin for emphasis as she says, “What happen to push up bra?”

“You’re starting to sound like my mom.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest, as if you’re protecting your girls from a push up bra, “Times have changed since you were young, Lizzie. A woman’s success isn’t determined by her ability to attract the best partner anymore. Nowadays women don’t have to worry so much about getting dressed up, they don’t have to put on… _impractical_ , uncomfortable clothes to prove their worth.” 

The way Lizzie gazes at you makes you feel small and foolish. Her eyes are soft with pity and her small smile is sad. It’s an expression you’ve seen many times on your mother’s face, it’s the ‘ _bless your heart_ ’ look. 

“ _Muy droga_ , not for man - for _you_.”

This catches you off guard. You’re used to your mother telling you to look good for a man, to make sure you can attract the best husband. Your whole life you’ve been told: _men like this, men look for this in a wife, you won’t catch a man wearing that, do this, do that, too much, too little._ By the time you were in college, you were already burnt out from the whole rigamarole and you’d started ‘dressing for yourself,’ but you’d taken that to mean, dress comfortably, practically, professionally. You’d never really thought of dressing _up_ , looking ‘pretty’ for yourself and yourself only.

“ _Ksiezyc?_ ” 

“Bless you.” You say automatically, assuming the strange sound Lizzie had just made was a sneeze. 

Your neighbor ignores you and shuffles to the whiteboard behind you, tapping a gnarled finger on one of the names written, “ _Mesic?_ ”

“Do you recognize these names?” You rush over to her, excited. 

“ _Ksiezyc_ is my language, it Polish. _Mesic_ is Czech. My first love was Czech. Petar. I understand little he say, but he had great mouth and strong tongue,” she raises an eyebrow at you, then turns back to the board, “I know this _mesic_. My _tato_ did not be liking Petar. Our love was forbidden. We had to be sneaking. Petar would tell me, _‘sejeme se na mesic,_ ’ meet me at moon.” 

“ _Mesic_ means... moon?” 

Lizzie nods, then points up at _Ksiezyc_ , “This one is saying moon too.” 

The wheels in your brain start to turn. The moon from your dreams, the names of the surgeons. The logical side of you gestures to Ockham's razor, demanding that you brush it off as coincidence. 

And yet, you can’t. 

Especially not after what happens next.

Lizzie has left the door to your apartment open, clearly intending to be in and out. 

First, you notice the stormy grey, black tipped snout of the beast poking through the gap of your door followed by a female voice scolding, “No, Fezzik, no! We don’t live here anymore.” But when the dog forces the door open with his face, you see that the situation was hopeless. The woman was no match for the will of the giant great dane. 

She’s a woman about your age dressed in light blue scrubs under her big winter coat. Though she’s smiling apologetically at you, you can tell that she has a guarded manner about her. There’s something eerily familiar about her features, something you can’t quite place, like you’ve passed her in hallways, or known her in another life, or seen her in your dreams. 

Something.

“Sorry,” she starts, trying to stay rooted in the doorway, “We used to live here and he must be homesick.” 

_The neurologist._

You try to reassure her that now you know she’s not a murderer, she’s more than welcome. But you’re drowned out by Lizzie, who is a flurry of rapid Polish as she rushes them, further exciting the dog. His tail whacks the doorframe rhythmically and deep whining, eager groans are coming from his throat. 

The old woman barely has to stoop to massage the dog’s cheeks rapidly and croon in Polish to him. After a moment of this, she stands, as if it were her place, orders them to, “Come in. Come in.” 

The neurologist and you exchange a look of shared exasperation over your eccentric neighbor as she cautiously comes in, led by her canine. 

“You must be the famous neurologist.” You channel that southern hospitality your mother instilled in you and approach her, introducing yourself and shaking her hand. 

“I see my reputation precedes me.” She rolls her eyes, “I hope Ms. Lizzie here hasn’t been telling you too many of my dark, dirty, secrets.” 

“Oh, it’s not just Lizzie who tells me things about you,” you lean in a conspiratorial fashion and admit, “some man in my dreams last night was also talking about you. You’re everywhere.” 

When she stiffens and her smirk freezes on her pretty face, you realize how odd it was to say this to someone you’d just met. 

Okay, it would be odd even if you hadn’t just met. 

In your head you’d thought it might’ve been funny, but now that the words are hanging in the air like a bad stench that you can’t get rid of, you realize how creepy they are. 

You’re fumbling over what you’re supposed to say next, feeling your face warm from embarrassment. Should you say sorry? No, that would be weird. Should you ask her to leave? Also weird, not to mention downright discourteous. Should you make a joke? 

Thankfully, before you make it worse, the neurologist is distracted by your board, “Fengari… Is that Greek?” 

“I’m… not sure,” you shrug, “I don’t know Greek. Do _you_ know Greek?” 

She laughs and shakes her head, “Fuck no.” 

You feel a strange wave of relief. It’s not that you don’t like the neurologist, she seems nice enough. But you’ve felt a bit of competition with her because Lizzie likes to compare the two of you. If she’d known Greek you’d have certainly tried to pick up Mandarin or something and that would’ve been exhausting. 

“But I do have a bit of an obsession with etymology,” she continues, and taps on the board, “and I know the ‘feng’ prefix means ‘light’ in Greek.” 

Your phone vibrates in the front pocket of your hoodie. It’s a number you don’t recognize. You silence it and put it back. 

The neurologist arches an eyebrow at you, “You need to take that?” 

“Nah,” you shake your head, “It’s probably just my mom testing me, seeing if I’m avoiding her.” 

“Are you?” 

You nod and she laughs. 

“Anyway. So that name means light?” There goes that whole ‘moon’ theory you were working with. 

She shrugs, “Maybe. But I could figure it out.” 

“Really?” Your competitiveness starts to creep back in while you imagine her Beautiful Mind-ing the names, decoding them with her immaculate neurologist brain. 

“Sure.” She holds up her phone, “Google.” 

You laugh and decide that you like the neurologist. Maybe, in an alternate universe where you weren’t leaving Gotham by the end of next month, you could be friends. Your phone starts to vibrate again. 

_Same number._

“I should probably take this, before she decides to call the police or buy a plane ticket or something.” 

The neurologist nods, while still looking down at her phone, “I need to go soon. Late shift tonight.” 

“It was good to finally put a face to your name.” 

She smiles, “Likewise, _pathologist_.” 

Ah. So it’s not a one sided competition Lizzie has created. She’s been talking about you to her as well. 

You slide the answer button and say, “Hello?” 

The neurologist writes something on the board, waves goodbye, and leaves with Fezzik and Lizzie in tow. 

The person on the other line isn’t your mother. It’s a man, with a deep, tired voice, asking to speak to you. 

“This is she.” You answer. 

“This is Commissioner Gordan with GCPD. You probably don’t remember me, but we sat next to each other at the New Year’s Eve Ball?” 

You nod before remembering he can’t see you and then say, “Yes. I remember you.” 

“I know you’re investigating the sudden cardiac deaths.” As if he knows you’ve opened your mouth to protest, he quickly adds, “One of our… mutual friends, one who has a penchant for wearing masks and capes? He gave me your contact information, says I can trust you.” 

This gets your attention. For the first time in weeks Batman is contacting you. Not directly, but through someone from the GCPD. You suck in a deep breath before asking, “Is he… is he okay?” 

“Who? Batman? I’m not calling about him.” Gordon strikes you as an efficient man. Not one for small talk, “Can you meet me at the OCME? We’ve just got another one and I’m on my way there now.” 

“Another one?” you rub at the creases in your forehead. 

“Another cardiac death,” Gordon sighs, seemingly just as exasperated at your inability to keep up with his cryptic conversation as you are, “Can you be at the office in five? I want you to get the exam in before McFaden can drag his feet on it.” 

At long last your exhausted neurons have connected the dots: Gordon has a body he wants you to examine before McFaden can give official permission. Is it sketchy? Yes. Could it get you fired? Yes. Could it get you reported to the board? Possibly. 

But you’re already pulling on your shoes and grabbing a protein bar from the cupboard. And just before you turn out the lights and head out to the OCME, you register what the neurologist has written next to the name Fengari: _‘moon.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! 
> 
> I realize this chapter was really... plot heavy? I originally had much bigger plans for it, but have a huge oncology final this weekend (as you can probably tell from my whole cancer spiel at the beginning) and decided to split it in two. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy this weird escape I've made to cope with my stress. lol. 
> 
> <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All great and precious things are lonely._
> 
> \- John Steinbeck, _East of Eden_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> autopsy description, blood, medical procedures, loneliness, probably more that I'm forgetting

“What… _is_ that?” 

In the twenty minutes you’ve spent in Jim Gordon’s company, you get the impression that he isn’t a man who is easily shocked. So, when he asks the question in a flabbergasted tone, you wish you could savor it. 

You wish you could give him a badass, matter-of-fact answer that would make you look like you knew what the hell you were doing. 

But you can’t. Because you have no clue. You’re as floored as he is to see the inside of Harmony Taylor’s thoracic cavity. 

The twenty-two year old cocktail waitress was still warm when you started cutting into her. Well, _warm_ is relative. To a physician who worked with the living she’d be frigid, but since your bodies always came out of the fridge, she felt warm by comparison. 

Up until this point, Gordon had stood next to you, as stoic as any well-seasoned commissioner would. He didn’t rush the pictures, or interrupt you when you were pointing out to Mari the tiny scar on her lower right quadrant. He didn’t hurry along the photographs, or ask any unnecessary questions, or act like he knew how to do your job like the younger detectives on the force tended to do. 

Gordon didn’t pale when the bone saw connected with the sternum, or when you and Mari cracked open the ribs. It wasn’t until you’d opened the pericardial sac that you’d _both_ recoiled. 

There appeared to be some sort of white, fuzzy, plaque bursting forth of her aorta. The central region of the plaque was bright, solid white, but where it branched out like roots, it became dimmer and looked as if it were dissolving into the clotting blood. 

You’d never seen anything like it. Not in your medical textbooks, not in a horror movie, not in a medical drama. The closest thing you could describe it as would be lichen on a tree… that had burst forth of her aorta like a… xenomorph? No, that wouldn’t do for medical charting. 

You step back and Mari takes this as her cue to come in with the camera. Fearlessly, she zooms in and snaps pictures at every possible angle. Perhaps a little too slowly, your training comes back to you. 

“Uh… Mari?” While the foreboding in your voice captures the attention of the commissioner and you can sense him tense next to you, the mortuary tech barely acknowledges you. 

“I think we should…,” you instill your voice with confidence and clear your throat before continuing on, “We need to initiate quarantine protocols.” 

At this she steps back and her brows knit together, “What are you talking about? Quarantine? This body isn’t… _infected._ ” 

“You tell me what that is then.” You nod toward the cavity of the woman on the table. When Mari doesn’t answer you keep going, “We don’t _know_. We need to put her in quarantine, take a sample, and alert the health department.” 

“It’s not infectious.” This time it’s not Mari who says it. 

The deep, familiar voice strikes a cord and you whip around to see who you already knew would be there. Batman. 

It’s a true testament to your loneliness that you fight the urge to run to him, to embrace him, to slap him and ask him just where the hell he’s been. This man who you couldn’t stand not two weeks before is now your knight in gothic armor, leaning against the doorframe clutching his bloodied arm. 

_Wait… bloodied?_

Your eyes widen. The man is straight dripping blood all over the floor. Bright red, liquid. The blood of the living. You rarely see it. 

“Good god! What _happened_ to you?” You tear off your gloves and rush to him, but are still covered in potentially infectious biohazard. You flail your hands around him helplessly before snapping your fingers and pointing at Gordon, then the empty stainless steel examination table adjacent to the one you’re using. “Help him to the table.” 

“Jeez, you’re bossy.” The lazy smirk on Batman’s lips sends a pang through your heart that you’re way too flustered to examine. 

You’ve got a bleeding vigilante, a girl with her chest open on your table with a strange growth in her chest that may or may not be spreading noxious spores of death around the whole room. Not to mention a police commissioner who is bearing witness to all the license-revoking blunders you’re making left and right. You simply have no time to be mindful of your bizarre, and likely meaningless, subconscious reactions to Batman’s facial expressions. 

“Mari! What the hell are you doing? Get away!” You shout at the tech when you turn to see her leaned over the open chest cavity and reaching in, mentally adding _’blatantly disobedient techs’_ to your list of ever growing anxieties. 

The stubborn woman is unphased. She mumbles, “Just a second…,” as she proceeds to scrape something onto an empty petri dish and hold it up proudly, “It’s dissolving fast and I wanted to grab a sample of it before it’s gone.” 

Your mask, scrub cap, and face shield begin to make you feel claustrophobic as your face heats with your culminating frustration. So you rip them off as you lay into Mari, your raised voice echoing off the walls of the empty office, “Did you not _hear me_? I said we need to initiate quarantine protocols! We don’t know what that junk is wrapped around her aorta!” 

“There’s no need, doc, it’s not infectious.” The tech, as always, is calm, collected, and confident. It’s incensing. 

“She’s right.” Batman adds from the table he is sitting on, propping his arm in his lap. He’s left a trail of blood and you can see it’s still dripping off his fingers. 

“Oh. Okay.” You nod with exaggerated vigor, clenching your hands into fists so tight that your nails bite into the skin of your palms. 

While you’re raging internally, externally your muscle memory and well-trained doctor brain have you stomping across the floor to collect a sleeve of industrial, brown, paper towels. You’ll save Batman, but you’re going to do it with a pissy attitude if no one is going to respect your authority. 

You rip the paper towels open as you storm back over to where Gordon has taken Batman, then pull them out, tug his hand off his arm, locate the injury, press a stack of paper towels to it, put his hand back on top, and order him to, “Put pressure on that.” 

You do all of this while simultaneously growling, “So when I get charged with unleashin’ some sort of... deadly pathogen, I’ll be sure to explain that I ignored my years of trainin’ because of what a tech and a grown ass man in a - pardon my French - goddamned _bat_ costume said! I’m sure the courts’ll understand.” 

“Uh oh,” your patient tips his head to the commissioner who is standing at the ready by his side, “She’s so angry she’s gone southern on us.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” You narrow your eyes at him. You’re in the process of taking off your gown with the intent of cleaning up, putting on a new one, and getting him stitched up, but now you’re wondering if you should just let him bleed out. 

Then he sways and your hard edges start to soften. Something about seeing someone so strong and impenetrable in a weakened, vulnerable state, tugs at your heartstrings. You rush to him, but Gordon steadies him. You see that he’s already soaked through the stack of paper towels. 

“Mari!” you call over your shoulder, taking hold of his other shoulder, “I need -,” 

But she’s anticipated your needs, as usual, and is already unloading the needles, thread, gauze, and all other supplies onto the bottom half of the table, eliciting another tug at your heartstrings. Perhaps you’d been too harsh on her. 

“Do you need to lie down?” You crouch down to meet Batman’s eyes. You’ve never seen them so close before. They’re a deep indigo. 

He shakes his head, “You need to examine her body.” He nods over your shoulder, indicating the young woman on your table. 

“Yeah, well if I don’t look at this soon, I’ll be filling out two death certificates tonight.” You pull on some gloves and take the scissors to his sleeve, slicing through all the material from his elbow down. As you do, Mari has pulled off his glove.

You can draw a straight line from his pinky to where the wound starts at his wrist. From there it proceeds about three inches up toward the elbow in a slightly curved line. You’re not used to having to control for bleeding and after several failed attempts, you’re finally able to confirm, “There’s no damage to a major vessel that I can see.”

 _So why all the blood?_

He must be able to see your confusion because he answers, “His blade. They dip them in cobra venom. Most of the toxins are denatured, but the anticoagulant stays, increasing the chances their victims will bleed out.” 

_His blade? Who’s blade? They? Who are they?_ But you don’t have time or cognitive power at the moment to ask these questions. Plus, there are more urgent questions to be asked. 

“What kind of anticoagulant is in cobra venom? Will it resolve if I stitch you up or do I need to call an ambulance for a transfusion? What’s your blood type?” 

“Stitching it up will suffice.” 

“Okay… but I strongly encourage you to get it looked at by a general practitioner or emergency med physician as soon as possible.” 

“I trust you.” 

Something in his voice makes your stomach stir and you shift your weight to distract yourself from it. 

“Well you shouldn’t. I haven’t stitched up a living person since medical school. I don’t even remember how to do anything that’s not a baseball stitch.” You point out while you open the plastic container of threads. They’re the more delicate ones used for facial injuries, but they’re still a completely different makeup compared to the threads used on the living. They’re less adaptable, more unyielding, made for stabilization, not growth or movement. They’ll be uncomfortable. 

In addition, you don’t have any anesthetics, or topical analgesics, because you normally don’t have to worry about physical discomfort in those you’re stitching. You’ll need to distract him. It’s the best you’ve got. 

“Tell me how this happened. Knife fight?” You instill your voice with authority. 

“How’d you know?”

You glance up at him, “The edges of the wound are clean with clear margins, not ragged and there’s no signs of shearing, indicating it’s an incision made likely by an extremely sharp knife rather than a blunt force laceration.”

His eyes move back and forth between yours. Although his expression is mostly unreadable due to the mask, you can perceive the intensity of it, and you have to look away from it. 

“.... and you told me. You said he had a blade. So tell me,” you sigh, attempting again to distract him from what you’re about to do, “how’d you get this?” 

“A knife fight.” he says as you reach for the high pressure water jet at the station and quickly debride the wound with the sterile water.

He doesn’t even flinch, “I was pursuing a lead, chasing a man leaving _that_ woman’s apartment,” when he says _that_ he inclines his head toward the woman behind you, “and he put up a fight.” 

“You mean… you think he killed her?” Your fingers stop threading your needle and you look at him. But when you see that his wound is already starting to bleed again, you get back to work. 

“I _know_ he killed her.” He says it in a voice that is deep and dangerous. 

This statement only brings a whole new flood of questions into your mind, but you’re trying your hardest to stitch him up as fast as you can. With hands unpracticed at having to work quickly and in slick conditions, your needle slips and digs several times. Oddly enough, _you’re_ the only one wincing at this, and because of this, you’re starting to worry that he has some nerve damage. 

Once you finish off the last stitch, you wipe it off with alcohol wipes, put some gauze on it and wrap it in a bandage. 

“There. Hopefully that works until you can get it looked at by someone else.” You take off your gloves and go to the long metal sink to wash your hands, “Now, tell me exactly how do you _know_ this guy kill -,” But when you turn around he’s gone. 

Gordon snorts with amusement, “Yeah. I learned a long time ago that if I have more to say to him, to keep him in sight. He has a tendency to… disappear.” 

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Your stomach makes an ungodly rumbling noise as you unlock your door to your apartment and walk inside. 

Maybe it’s not normal to have an appetite after the night you’ve had. A night full of blood (both dead and coagulated _and_ alive and flowing), snake venom blades (wtf?), murder allegations, and a potential infectious contaminant... but _fuck_ if you’re not starving. 

After The Dark Knight fled the premises mysteriously, you’d figured it’d be best at that point to just finish the exam as quickly as possible. It was only you, Mari, and Gordon in the building, so on the off chance it was some new strange disease, you’d be the only three exposed. That’s about as far as your critical thinking got you. Since you’d made so many questionable, actionable, egregious errors that were all on camera, you were in a sort of _throw-caution-to-the-wind_ mindset. 

Once the exam was done (cause of death was yet again listed as ‘unexplained sudden cardiac death via aortic dissection’), the body was put in sealed storage, the examination room was cleaned and disinfected, and everything was put back in place, Gordon drove you home. 

The ride was quiet. The events of the night were weighing heavily on both of your minds and were making your tongue feel thick and heavy. But before you got out, he put a hand on your arm to stop you. 

“Gotham is lucky to have you, doctor.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. 

What _could_ you say to that? ‘ _Oh thanks, but I’m leaving’? ‘Oh that’s nice of you to say, but you’re wrong because I’ve missed clues left and right and I’m pretty sure I’m horrible at my job’? ‘Oh, okay, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as my boss hears I did the autopsy without McFaden’s go-ahead, he’s going to look at the tapes and then I’ll be lucky if all he does is report me to the medical board’?_

No, you couldn’t say any of those things. Not just because you were exhausted, but because Jim Gordon usually looked so… tired. The kind of tired that only came with decades of seeing only the worst side of humanity. And when he said this, there seemed to be a little glimmer behind his eyes, a little light. As if you gave him hope and you just couldn’t disappoint him. 

So you just shot him the best smile you could manage in your state, and got out. 

As you walked up the steps to your apartment, you took each step slower than the next, asking yourself the same questions you had for Batman when you were in the exam room. 

_Where has he been? How does he know who did this? What has he been doing? Who was he talking about?_

_Why didn’t he stay? Were we not in this together?_

These last few questions attempted to plant the seeds of betrayal, but your stomach simply will not allow it. It screams at you that you only have room for one betrayal-fueled emotional breakdown a day, because when that happens, you forget to eat. 

So instead of screaming into a pillow on the couch, you’re currently making yourself a delicious sandwich, snacking on pickles as you do. 

You can sense him before you see him. 

Or maybe it’s the breeze that cues in your subconscious of his presence. Either way, before you even turn around to see The Bat standing by the window he’s just come in through, you’re asking, “Do you want something to eat?” 

He shakes his head once and you shrug, while taking your sandwich to the small dining table in your little dining nook off of the kitchen, “Mind if I eat? I haven’t eaten all day.” 

You don’t wait for his permission before digging in, not caring how many chins you have when you open your mouth big enough to get a good bite, or how unappealing you must look while chewing. 

Your mother would be appalled at your manners. She’d shudder at the way you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, then gesture with the same hand to the chair across from you. She might even gasp in horror to hear the way you garble out an invitation around half-masticated food, “Have a seat.” 

But Batman doesn’t seem to mind. He simply does as you say, watching you carefully as he sits, then asks, “Why haven’t you eaten all day?” 

On a shrug you respond, “I’ve been in a bit of a funk for a bit and it kinda came to a head today.” 

The corners of his lips tip down in what you think might be a concerned frown. 

“It’s nothing serious, just some silly heartache. I’ll get over it.” If you keep telling yourself that, it’ll be true. You’re sure of it.

“Bruce Wayne?” 

This has you freezing mid-shoving the sandwich into your facehole, until you remember Batman keeps tabs on you. 

You shrug and after swallowing another bite of sandwich you continue, “Yeah. I misread some signals and let myself develop a tiny crush on him on accident.” You chuckle and roll your eyes as if this were something that was commonplace, “You know. The usual.” 

He doesn’t laugh, and his mouth has formed a tight straight line. It’s a good thing you’re leaving since your only friends in Gotham are an emotionally constipated grown man who runs around in a flying mammal costume, and an old woman who’s always criticizing your life choices. 

The thought of leaving reminds you, “I’m glad you’re here because, since I’m definitely going to lose my job over what just happened, I want to give you the last of my leads before I go.” 

“What do you mean you’ll lose your job over what just happened? No one will know what happened tonight except us. Gordon and that tech won’t tell anyone.” 

This gives you pause. You furrow your brow and open your mouth several times to speak before finally saying, “What do you mean by that? What about Harmony Taylor? I’ve already filled out her death certificate. And there’s camera footage.” 

“I’ve already altered the camera footage, forged some coroner documents, and changed the date on the death certificate to reflect these changes.” 

Had you been having this conversation a month ago, you might’ve pointed out the legal and ethical ramifications of what he’s done. Perhaps you would’ve been appalled at his blatant disregard for the justice system and given a lengthy slippery slope lecture to him. But in the wake of your own disillusionment of the justice system, and your own laundry list of recent illegal activities, you aren’t one to judge. 

So, instead, all you do is part your lips in surprise and huff, “Wow. You’re an efficient one, aren’t you?” Before you shrug again, take another bite, and say, “Well, I’m leaving at the end of March no matter what. So, there,” you nod toward the whiteboard in the living room behind him, and he twists in the chair, looking over his shoulder, “Those names are some of the names of surgeons who are listed on medical records of the victims.” 

He stands and walks toward the board while you explain, “They’re listed as having performed appendectomies on patients that still have their appendix intact.” 

“Moon...” His voice sounds distant, and somewhat awestruck. It piques your curiosity. So you get up and join him, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, watching his profile as he studies the board. 

Observing the shape of his chin in profile, the swoop of his mouth, you are reminded of the night you were eating street tacos with Bruce. It calls forth a stabbing pain right at the base of your diaphragm that radiates out into an ache that fills your chest. 

_How pathetic._

You fell so hard for that dickhead that now just being around another man is reminding you of him. You hate him - Bruce Wayne. The reckless honesty you’d adopted with him had resulted in you opening yourself up to him more than you had anyone else, you’d let him see you for who you truly are. And because of that, when he’d rejected you, it hurt so much more. 

Well, you were done being pathetic. At least you were done being pathetic over Bruce Wayne. 

You force yourself to look toward the board then point to the names that Lizzie and the neurologist had translated, “Yeah. My neighbor and the girl who used to live here told me these ones mean ‘moon’.” 

“They _all_ mean moon.” 

At this your jaw drops and you look back toward him while you echo, “They _all_ mean moon?!” 

He starts at the top, skipping the ones you already pointed out, saying the names with authentic articulation, “ _Tsuki_ is moon in Japanese, _Cap_ Mongolian, _Dal_ Korean, _Hirha_ is Hebrew, and _Mahina_ is in Nepali.” 

“Wow. You really know all those languages?” 

“You sound surprised, doctor.” When he turns to you, it’s with a small smirk. Ugh. There goes your chest again. 

_Will. Not. Be. Pathetic._

“Just kinda thought you were more of a…,” your gaze spans the width of his broad shoulders before it flickers back up to meet his, “ _brute force_ kinda guy.” 

You’re not sure what you said, but it has The Bat retreating. Not physically, but it’s as if he’s closing the shutters to his face, going back into hiding. 

He clears his throat and straightens, then is back to being all business. He taps the word ‘moon’ the neurologist had written beside Fengari’s name, “Do you want to know how I figured out Harmony Taylor was going to be the next target?” 

You nod, trying not to play it off as eager as you felt because _hell yeah_ you want to know. 

“I figured out a pattern in the ‘Missed Connections’ section of the _Gazette_.” 

“‘Missed Connections’?” You wrinkle your nose. 

“It’s the section in the paper where people write in to vocalize a missed opportunity of some sort. An opportunity to compliment a stranger or to introduce themselves to someone, for example. They usually have a descriptor of the person and a location where they were seen by the person writing in.” 

“Sounds… creepy?” 

He rolls his lips between his teeth like he’s trying to contain a laugh. _Always so serious._

“Well in this case it is.” He says once he’s gotten his mirth thoroughly under control, “In my research, I noticed that the day before all of the deaths, there’d been a ‘Missed Connection’ with their description in the _Gazette_. And in each of the descriptions, there’s a mention of…,” he taps the word again, “the moon. Yesterday one read, ‘To the brown-eyed girl, with the long black curls shimmering in the moonlight, and the beauty mark on your left temple. I saw you rounding the corner of 3rd Avenue and Peach Street at around seven in the evening and wanted to tell you how much I liked your smile.’” 

The description _does_ match Harmony Taylor, but it could have also been any number of women in Gotham. 

“I narrowed down a list of several people fitting the description who I deemed to be high risk and kept a watch on them. But he was too quick, or maybe I was too slow.” 

While you can tell he is disappointed, the disappointment in his voice is tempered with a hefty fatigue. A fatigue that must be contagious because suddenly you know how he feels. It’s as if you’ve been trying to keep your head above water and all at once you’ve been pulled under by some unseen force, and now you’re drowning in a sea of exhaustion. 

_What now?_

How many more will die before you can figure this out? The pressure is debilitating.

The information Batman has delivered should be exciting, it should feel like progress. But it’s more questions. More questions that you won’t be able to find the answer to, that you’re not confident you even have the capability of finding the answer to. 

You look, with a glazed over, unfocused stare, at the whiteboard, the arm you’ve crossed over your abdomen propping up the elbow of your other hand while you brush your fingertips across your bottom lip absentmindedly. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice dipping into a softer, gentler range, “you okay?” 

With a swallow and a nod you turn to him, “Just… sleepy, I guess.” You’re not quite able to look him in the eyes, so you focus on his hands. That’s when you realize, with a start that he has new gloves on and a new suit. 

You’d nearly forgotten about stitching him up with all that's happened in the hours between. 

“Can I see your stitches?” You ask with a tilt of your head in the direction of his right arm. 

Initially, he acts just as you’d expect him to. He retreats a bit, and shakes his head. But when you say, “Please?” he must hear the desperation in your voice. The desperation to prove to yourself that you’re not completely useless, that you’re not helpless, that you’re unable to help anyone or solve anything. He must see in your eyes that taking a look at his arm would be more for you than it would be for him, because he pulls off his glove, pulls up his sleeve, and holds his arm out to you. 

You shudder when you get the bandages off and see the stitches. Not only are they sloppy and uneven from your haste, but they’re clearly too tight for a normal healing process. They’ll leave a puckered scar for sure. But from the angry bruise that’s developing underneath, you wonder if anything looser would’ve effectively stopped the bleeding. And you’re satisfied that the level of swelling doesn’t appear to be excessive, indicative of a budding infection. 

“Are you in any pain?” 

He shakes his head and you chew on the inside of your bottom lip. 

“What?” He asks with a wary tone, “You only move your mouth like that when you’re debating whether or not to say something.” 

You look up at him, arching an eyebrow in surprise. Either Batman is way more observant that you realized to have gathered that amount of information on you in the brief interactions you've had, or the ‘tabs’ he’s keeping on you are way more involved than you knew. 

“Just tell me,” he groans, then jokes, “is the whole arm going to have to come off?” 

After a huff of amusement, you shake your head, “It should be somewhat painful at this stage. So unless you’re trying to be a macho man, I’m worried there may be some nerve damage. Move your pinky finger for me?” 

He does and you notice his other fingers move a bit with him. You gather his middle finger, pointer finger, and thumb and hold them together in a little bundle - negating any agonistic muscle movement - then instruct him to move his pinky again. It twitches, but it clearly takes some effort on his part. 

“Your ulnar nerve is damaged.” You announce. 

“...and?” 

“And nerves take a long time to heal. You might have decreased sensation to the outside edge of your forearm and less strength of your pinky and ring fingers for a while.” 

You pretend to examine his arm for a few moments longer. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re pretty sure you’re just enjoying touching another person. Additionally, you’re worried that as soon as you wrap him back up, he’ll leave and you won’t see him again for another few weeks. 

But eventually, you suck it up. You put the bandage back on and relinquish his arm. 

“You’re too good for him you know.” You shoot him a questioning look and he answers it, “Bruce Wayne.” 

“Oh…,” yet again you’re at a complete loss at what to say. You look down at the floor and shuffle your feet. 

Then, when you see him move toward the window from your periphery, you panic. You rush forward a couple of steps and shout, “Wait!” 

He does. 

“Don’t go.” 

There’s a pause where you consider that maybe you can’t help being pathetic. Maybe it’s just who you are. Maybe you’re no different than the people writing into the Gazette, just wanting a connection, a friend, a companion. 

You let go of all your pride and surrender to it to ask, “Can you... stay with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone.” 

When you get the courage to peek up at him, you see he’s frowning. It makes your stomach churn. 

“I… I just mean, like can you hang out in my room with me until I fall asleep?” You know you sound like a small child right now, but you’re too tired to care. 

When he nods, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in, and your whole body deflates. 

.  
.  
.

You wonder what Matthew, Dream’s raven spy, thinks about the sight of Batman sitting in all his armored glory, on top of your poofy, white, marshmallow fluff comforter while you doze snuggled into the spot next to him. 

Even you have to admit, though you’re beyond grateful to him for agreeing to stay, it must be a hilarious sight. Though you can tell he’s trying to appear casual, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles, he’s clearly uncomfortable. At first he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and finally put them on his lap, resting palms down on his thighs. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Though you don’t dare touch him, you shimmy closer to him, relishing the sensation of the gravity from another person next to you. 

“Mmm,” he hums his consent. It’s a hypnotic, vibrating sound. 

“Earlier you said, ‘they dip their daggers in cobra venom.’ Who is ‘ _they_ ’?” 

He sighs and does that thing where he tries to scratch the back of his neck but forgets he’s wearing a cowl, then answers, “The League of Shadows.” 

In your sleep deprived, stressed out state, you find this absolutely hysterical and you giggle, “That sounds made up.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” When he smirks down at you, you see a hand reach up and touch the corner of his lip, and it takes you a bit to recognize it’s yours. His smile falls and he reaches up his gloved hand, taking yours in it and hesitating before cautiously placing it back on your pillow. 

You’re too comfortable and warm and drowsy to be offended. “Do you think they are behind the deaths?” 

He tilts his head slightly to the side, pondering your question before saying, “No. I don’t think The League would get involved in something as… mundane as murder for hire, but the man I fought tonight was definitely trained by them.” 

You know you have more questions, but you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent thoughts. So you wiggle deeper under the blankets, close your eyes, and sigh, “Thank you for staying.” 

He hums again, and you can feel the weight of his eyes on you, but your lids are too heavy to open. 

Right when you’re on the precipice of dreams, he speaks again. His voice sounds far away, familiar, dreamy, “What name would you have put?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Earlier today, you said you’d be filling out two death certificates if I didn’t let you help me. What name would you have put, if you had to fill out my death certificate?” 

In your half-asleep state, it takes you longer than it should to puzzle out his cryptic question. When you finally make some sort of sense of it, you chuckle and admit, your words barely understandable in your state, “Oh, I don’t know…,” 

And right before you finally nod off, you _think_ you hear him ask, “Don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably state explicitly that I have no business writing this fic. 
> 
> I've read only a handful of Batman comics throughout my life and have no intention of keeping this in any way canon. On that note, it's so hard to keep track of what is and isn't canon in Batman bc there's been more Bruce Wayne storylines than... [things] in [other things] (can you tell my brain is exhausted?). 
> 
> ANYWAY! just realized I'm gonna start accidentally pissing people off who like things to the book here pretty soon as the storyline progresses. so if you feel like you're one of those people, by all means keep reading, but please be nice and remember that I'm too stressed out to do more than like... bare minimum research. 
> 
> as always, thanks for all the support and I love all the messages of encouragement. 
> 
> <3 <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Said little bitch, you can't fuck with me_  
>  _If you wanted to_  
>  _These expensive, these is red bottoms_  
>  _These is bloody shoes_
> 
> \- Cardi B, "Bodak Yellow"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> getting felt up in dreams, sexual frustration, **so many** cliches, questionable taste in music (per summary quote), angst, crippling self-doubt, copious use of the following cringe terms: "girl power" and "bad bitch"

You wake up the next morning to the sound of your phone ringing. 

Well, _morning_ is technically incorrect since it’s just past twelve thirty in the afternoon. However, since you’ve been working graves, it’s basically your morning. 

It’s Ron and you ignore his call, rubbing your eyes and groaning as you fling yourself back into bed. Thinking about what your boss could be calling you about makes you sick to your stomach. What you want to think about is the dream you just had, because it makes you… well, it certainly doesn’t make you feel sick. 

For the first time in five nights, you didn’t have the strange moon in the heart dream. Instead, you dreamt of the night at Dulaman, the pub on the East Side docks. You dreamt of the kiss you shared with Bruce and of the way he’d held you in his covetous arms. 

But in your dream, his phone never rang, and he never left. 

In your dream, Bruce had taken your hand and pulled you away from the bar, into a darkened, empty hallway. He was leading you somewhere, but he had to stop several times on the way to lightly push you against the wall and trap your mouth with his, and press his body against yours, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if he couldn’t go for more than fifteen seconds without tasting you, without touching you. 

You can’t recall much detail, but you knew it made your stomach clench and become dense with lust. By the time the two of you made it to the bathroom, you were too worked up to care where you were. All you knew was that you wanted him more than you wanted anything before. 

Fortunately, dream Bruce appeared to be on the exact same page as you. He spun you around against the sink so you were facing the mirror then pressed the front of his body against your back.

You gripped the edges of the cold, porcelain sink while you watched the reflection of his head bending to your neck, kissing a line from throat to ear. Your lips parted, and your mouth watered as you watched his hands slide down your sides, then slip up your shirt to knead your breasts. 

When you arched your ass back into him, he groaned your name while biting down gently on the lobe of your ear, and your knees started to shake. He slithered his palm down the front of your torso, over your navel, diving deftly into the front of your pants to touch you right where you ached for him most. 

Your eyes rolled back into your head, and with one of your hands you reached back to clutch handfuls of his silky brown hair, keeping him as close as possible.On your next exhale you breathed out a plea to him, “Bruce. I need you. I need you now.” 

But when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t Bruce in the mirror. It was Batman. 

Batman with one black leather clad hand down the front of your pants. His right arm, the one you’d mended, is hiding under your shirt, and it’s bleeding. The fabric is turning red with his blood, bright red. The blood of the living. 

Before dream you could react, Ron’s call woke you up. 

Now you’re laying in bed trying to hold onto the dream, trying to make some sort of sense of it before it disappears. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, wanting to bask in how it felt to be with dream Bruce before your pride confiscates it. 

The end, where he turned into Batman, it was strange - but so was flying a moon into an artery, or getting felt up in a pub bathroom by Bruce Wayne. Dreams rarely made any sense, and you did have the Dark Knight in your bed with you when you fell asleep after all, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to have him show up.

In an effort to rekindle the feeling you’d had, you trace the path of Bruce’s hand, trying to remember… 

It’s no use. 

Ron has ruined it. The dream is fading rapidly, being replaced by your anxiety about why he was calling. Did he find out about the late night/early morning autopsy? Is he warning you that the OCME has decided to pursue legal action against you? With a dramatic groan you roll over and grab your phone to listen to the voicemail he’s left. 

He seems aggravated in his voicemail alright, but it has nothing to do with your examination of Harmony Taylor. You can picture his moustache twitching as he reminds you of the charity event tomorrow, though the way he says “reminding” sounds more like a threat. Once again he _tells_ (not asks) you to bring “Mr. Wayne,” and to “look nice.” 

An unexpected sensation overcomes you in this moment. Ron’s patronizing you, combined with the sexual energy of the dream, and the anger that’s been simmering for weeks over Bruce, they all culminate and morph into a completely different beast. A sort of vengeful determination. 

_No more being pathetic. No more being weak._

You’re going to that event at the Royal Hotel tomorrow. You’re going and you’re _not_ bringing Bruce Wayne, but _no one_ is going to notice. 

You’re going to do what Lizzie suggested, you’re going to get dressed up _for yourself._ You’re going to instill yourself with confidence and prove to everyone (and more importantly yourself) that you don’t need Bruce, or Ron, or anyone to validate you. It’s not Bruce who makes you worthwhile at the OCME, _he’s_ not the one who has an MD after his name, _he’s_ not the one who did a four year residency followed by a fellowship to learn how to do medical examinations. 

You get out of bed with attitude, kicking off your ridiculous fluffy blanket, loathing it for its softness. If you were in a movie, you imagine this would be the moment where you’d have your quintessential _Transformation into a Bad Bitch_ montage. 

While you shower and scrub every inch of your body from head to toe until your skin is smooth and glistening, you listen to “Bad Girls” by M.I.A. You envision the whole ordeal as a metaphor for shedding your old skin, when really it’s just an orange scented scrub your mom got you for Christmas from Bath and Body Works. 

When you’re getting dressed in something other than sweats or yoga pants for the first time in over a week, you’re listening to “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, trying to ignore the fact that you don’t own one single leather jacket or studded item. Other than the aforementioned sweats and yoga pants, your wardrobe consists of monochromatic professional clothes, one pair of jeans, and several floral print sundresses with the tags on that your mom insists on buying you. 

Later, when you’re shopping for your required dressed-to-kill outfit for the event on the Upper West Side, you continue your montage with “Bodak Yellow” by Cardi B playing in your ears. Your intention had been to get the Louboutin’s with “red bottoms” so no bitch could fuck with you, if they wanted to (per the lyrics), but good hell! When she said they were expensive, she wasn’t messing around. So you hoped no bitch would fuck with you in some, just as pointy, but cheaper, Michael Kors paired with a dress that would make your mother faint if she saw you in it. 

You even continue your pretend, cliched montage at work that night, listening to more power anthems as you examine slides of the mysterious substance Mari had taken from Harmony Taylor’s chest last night. Perhaps singing along to “Killer Queen” isn’t proper workplace practice while working at a medical examiner’s office. But you reason that after last night, “proper workplace practices” have pretty much gone out the window. 

Yet again you find yourself in a situation in which you are doing the job of another organization thanks to the incompetence of Gotham’s justice system. In school you’d been taught the standard multi departmental, multidisciplinary model for handling situations like this. If you’d been following this model, you’d have handed over the sample to the health department and the GCPD forensic’s lab for further investigation and went about your day. However, since it’s been made clear to you, by Ron and McFaden, that this model doesn’t apply to Gotham, you are acting in lieu of the health department and forensics.

Although, you did give a portion of the sample to Gordon, and saved another dish for the health department should the opportunity arise to hand it over to them. 

While you’re jotting down notes on your observations of the substance’s behavior in various conditions, you’re belting along with Freddy Mercury’s voice. 

“Caviar and cigarettes, well versed in etiquette...,” 

_Under further inspection, the unknown white substance found in the decedent's chest is determined to be a chemical compound rather than a fungus or any biological pathogen - as initially expected._

“...extraordinarily nice.” 

_Samples of the unknown compound appear to dissolve and become virtually undetectable in any acidic solution below pH 6.5._

“She’s a Killer Queeeeeeeeen,” 

_In addition, temperature appears to accelerate the breakdown of the compound. When placed on two blood nutrient plates, with one put in the fridge and the other in the incubator set to body temperature, the sample in the fridge dissolved at a quicker pace than the sample in the incubator. A property that appears to defy common principles of chemical behavior._

“Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind…,” 

“Someone’s in a good mood this morning.” Mari’s sardonic monotone cuts through your music. 

You glance at the clock on your phone as you pause the song, and see that she’s right, it’s three am - technically morning. You arch your back, stretch your arms over your head, and yawn. 

“So tell me, doc,” Mari hoists herself up on the table, sitting down next to the microscope, “What’s got you all glowy? Does he still wear his cape and mask in bed?” She leans in and waggles her eyebrows at you. 

If your responding nervous laughter, which is a pitch too high, doesn’t make you look guilty, your spluttering answer certainly does. “I.. I don’t know? I mean, he _did_ keep them on, but it wasn’t - what I mean is, that I didn’t do - I mean, I didn’t sleep with him. Well. I did, but I didn’t have _sex_ with _Batman_ , Mari.” 

“Your blush says otherwise.” Her matte black lips curve into a mischievous smile, “The energy between the two of you last night was crackling.” 

“Oh really?” You use sarcasm as a defense, “Well, who _wouldn’t_ have ‘crackling energy’ with the romantic atmosphere last night? What, with all that blood and murder.” 

Mari narrows her eyes at you, though she’s still smiling, “Well, if it’s not a roll in the hay giving you that sexual energy glow, what is?” 

“I dunno. Rage? Sexual frustration? Heartbreak? Wanting to feel like a bad bitch, just for me?” Such words feel wrong coming out of your mouth. Your flush grows hotter on your cheeks and you add in a timid voice, “Or.. more likely all the exfoliating I did today.” 

The tech puts a hand on your shoulder and when you look at her you see her face has gone serious. 

She has that manner about her that she gets on occasion, before she says something shockingly wise, “Go to the charity event tomorrow night, but go for yourself. Push yourself out of your comfort zone and show all the bastards how valuable you really are. But remember, they won’t see it unless you do first. Trust me when I tell you, life is too short to be feeling like a bad bitch for anybody but yourself.” 

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Mari _did_ tell you to push yourself out of your comfort zone, but as you look at your reflection in the full length mirror in your bedroom, you’re thinking you may be pushing too far. 

You’d already spent an absurdly long time doing your hair and a full face of makeup, complete with dramatic eyes and bold lips. Then with only five minutes before it was time for you to get going, you pulled on the new, matching, lacy black underthings that you’d gotten on your shopping spree - back when you’d been deluded by your imaginary montage.

After buckling the impossibly tiny ankle straps to your shoes, you stepped into the dress and stood in the mirror. 

The night you’d met Bruce Wayne, your mother had told you to not wear anything practical. 

Well, this dress is anything but practical. It’s made with a satiny black, “bedroom material” as your mother would call it. And now that you’re facing the reality of other people seeing you in it, you have to admit, the dress walks a fine line between lingerie and clothing. The bustier-cut top hikes your boobs up and the material loosens just enough to flatter your curves over your hips as it falls to the floor in a silky, onyx waterfall. 

“Remind me to never buy clothing while listening to Cardi B.” You groan to yourself as you step your leg out of the Jessica Rabbit slit off to the left side. At that moment your phone dings, informing you that the cab you ordered is approaching and you start to panic. 

With jerky, distressed movements you try to find the zipper on the side, which is also impossibly tiny. (Is this a requirement of luxury women’s clothing? Clasps, buttons, buckles, and zippers so tiny you’d think they were for dolls?) You’ve decided, once you can get out of this dress, you’ll wear your old reliable Givenchy. It’s a good dress; designer brand, expensive, practical. Who says you have to be Marilyn to be a bad bitch? RBG wore a goddamned doily and she was a bad bitch. 

A small gasp comes from your doorway. You spin around to see Lizzie, who’d let herself in again (you’ve really _got_ to get those keys from her), with her hands clapped over her mouth and her eyes wide and sparkling, with… _are those tears?_

“ _Muy droga!_ ” She shuffles toward you and reaches out for your hands, “Look at you.” She whispers reverently. 

You give her your hands and see that she is _indeed_ crying. The absurdity of the whole situation makes you chuckle. 

“ _This_ ,” she pulls one hand away to gesture to your whole person, “this is what I have been saying. You primetime girls always letting youth go. But look at you now, _muy droga_. Beautiful like princess.” 

The moment is oddly touching, and you decide you’re not going to change (plus, your window of time to change is rapidly slipping through your fingers). You’re going to go in there like the _primetime_ girl boss you are and no one is even going to remember who Bruce turdface Wayne is. 

“You even wear pushup bra. Just look at tits, so young, so high.” Lizzie sniffs and wipes away a tear. The little old lady is so proud of you for wearing a pushup bra that you don’t have the heart to explain that it’s mainly the _dress_ that’s pushing you up. 

Your phone dings again to tell you that your cab has arrived. You shoot Lizzie an apologetic look before walking as quickly as you can in your shoes to the closet, wrapping yourself up in your trench coat, grabbing your bag, and leaving. 

_There’s no turning back now._ You tell yourself, gritting your teeth in order to ignore the voice that says: _You can always turn back. You can always stay in and order pizza and watch Outlander. You can let them win._

.  
.  
.

You know that nightmare where you’re walking into a meeting, or high school dance, or grocery store and you suddenly realize everyone is staring and you’re in your underwear. That’s how you feel as you walk into the ballroom at the Royal Hotel.

 _No one is looking at you._ Is your attempt at tempering your roiling anxiety with logic. It’s not an unreasonable thought since there are many women in gowns just as revealing as yours, but somehow you’re different. Somehow, you truly believe, everyone can tell this is the first time the public has borne witness to this much of your skin. 

Where’s Cardi B when you need her? The string quartet in the corner playing Vivaldi doesn’t inspire the confidence this dress requires. 

However, to your amazement and delight, you find out that where the string quartet is failing, your nemesis will prevail. 

“Smallville!” 

The sound of Connor McFaden’s irritating voice proves just as effective as any girl power anthem at awakening the femme fatale persona you’ve adopted. 

Determined to make the little man cower before the night is over, you stand tall, straighten your shoulders, locate him and walk toward him with a confident sway. As you take in all of his inadequacies and mentally pick him apart, your mouth takes the shape of a scornful smirk. _What an adorable tux, I didn’t realize they made them in goblin size._

In a similar fashion, his expression changes as he takes you in. His eyes widen, and grow darker that usual. Initially, his jaw drops, but as you get closer he picks it back up to circle his lips around a low whistle while looking you up and down. 

_Eat your heart out, McFaden, you disgusting badger of a man._

“Yowza, Smallville.” He calls when you’re close enough, “I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again; you clean up _niiiice_.” 

You’re about to make a remark about how you wished you could say the same, but the man who is talking to McFaden turns toward you and your heart leaps into your throat. 

You’d been so intensely focused on McFaden that you hadn’t noticed the man he’d been talking to. You hadn’t noticed the head full of perfectly groomed brown hair, or the broad span of his shoulders, or the cut of his luxury suit. 

You hadn’t noticed Bruce Wayne until he was four feet in front of you, staring directly at you. 

His eyes don’t linger too long on yours, he does a quick scan of your body. His expression unreadable, with the exception of a small twitch of his jaw, which he hides by taking a sip of the amber liquid in the lowball glass he’s holding. 

You don’t move, you don’t breathe, and all you can hear is the rushing of blood in your ears. 

After he swallows he smiles his beautiful, charming smile - the smile you knew he reserved for the moments when he was playing Mr. Wayne, CEO. The smile he uses to get into absinthe bars, and probably the smile he uses to get between the sheets of supermodels. You hate that smile, it makes you want to spit in his face. And not in a kinky way. 

“There you are!” He closes the gap between you then wraps an arm around your shoulder to tuck you into his side. A total relationship move. You try to recoil, but his grip is too firm. 

He leans down and plants a kiss on your temple, then whispers, “Just go with it,” in your ear, and you hate the way your body reflexively responds, shivering and crying out for more. 

In a louder voice, he says, “I was just telling the coroner here how you’re always running late. But now that you’re here, let's go find our seat, shall we?” 

Bruce steers you to a table in the corner of the room, near the quartet, and your feet move almost against your will. As if you’re dancing with a very experienced partner who can lead your clumsy feet with little effort. 

Once you’re finally out of earshot from the rest of the crowd, he relinquishes his grip on you and you wiggle away from him like the eel that he is, while hissing, “What the hell? What are you doing here? What the fuck was _that_ about?” You hold out your arm, gesturing toward the area where McFaden and him were talking. 

“ _Shhh!_ ” Bruce gently, but firmly pushes your arm down, “I’m here because your _boss_ called me to make sure I came. Wasn’t that our arrangement? To make sure you stay on Ron’s good side, we were pretending to be an item?” 

You're incensed. You simply cannot believe the audacity, “Our arrangement was off the moment it stopped being pretend for me and you ignored me for two days. _Remember?_ ” 

“ _I_ ignored _you?_ I’m not the one who blocked you.” He takes a step closer and you match him, puffing out your chest and balling your hands into fists at your side. You don’t want him thinking he’s the alpha. 

“You left me no choice.” You whisper-scream into his face, “I thought…,” you stop, take a step back, and gaze down at the floor. 

_I thought you felt the same way. I thought we were friends. I thought, at the very least, you’d care about me enough to give me some answers._

“Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I was an idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot.” His voice is soft and hypnotic. You glance over at his fingertips that he’s running down your arm, “You’re one of the smartest people I know and I…,” when he pauses you risk a glance back up to his face to see he appears to be in earnest as he finishes, “I _miss_ you, Quince. I miss you so bad it hurts.” 

When he moves his hand from your arm to run his knuckles down the side of your face and his eyes flicker to your mouth, your stomach sparklers return, more powerful than before. But when you do the same, when you look at his mouth, you remember the pain you’d felt seeing his picture at the bodega. You remember the days of depression he’d caused, and you remember that you’re not going to let him mess with you. You deserve more. 

You deserve answers. 

You jerk your head away from his and step back, away from the magnetic pull of him, “If you missed me so much, why didn’t you return my calls? Why wouldn’t you talk to me? Why did you try to pretend that nothing happened between us? Why’d you immediately shack up with Rosa Santo?” There’s no point in pretending you don’t have her name memorized, like she hasn’t been floating around your head like a phantom for days. 

His eyes flash and he takes another step toward you while you move back, “What’s going on with Rosa, it’s not what you think.” 

“Then, for the love of god, Bruce, explain it to me!” You’re too exasperated to keep your voice down. 

“Uh oh!” Ron comes up behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder with that gruff laugh of his. You cross your arms across your chest and flinch away, not wanting his hand on your bare skin, “Trouble in paradise?” 

The laughter doesn’t reach Ron’s eyes when he looks down at you and you read his message loud and clear: _Your job is to make Bruce Wayne happy. Don’t screw it up._

“Glad you could make it, son.” The informal way your boss refers to Bruce is surprising to you, and you’re even more surprised when you watch him come in with the ultra-power-move handshake. Not only does he take Bruce’s hand, but he grips his forearm tightly with his other hand. 

“Happy to be here, Ron.” But you can see Bruce’s jaw tick ever so subtly behind his charming smile. 

This elicits a spasm in your sternal area. Because it’s the little things like this - the blips where you’re sure you know him, you’re sure you can read his face like a book - these were the things that really got under your skin later when you were completely blindsided by his reactions. You know you don’t want to fall back under his spell, but if the past few minutes have taught you anything, it’s that Bruce is your kryptonite. 

You can’t trust yourself around him, and since you’re resolved to not let him in again, you turn on your heel, intent on leaving the event. 

But then you hear Ron say, “Oh damn! I’m sorry, son, you’re bleeding.”

You stop and turn right back around. Your arms still crossed over your chest like a shield against your heart, just in time to see one solitary drop of blood drip down his right pinky finger. 

It’s so… red. 

_The blood of the living._

Ron still has a firm grasp on his hand and he palpates the area, “I thought I felt some stitches under there and I think one might’ve popped, let me have a look. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have grabbed your arm just now.” 

_‘I thought I felt some stitches under there’?_

All of your breath is knocked out of your lungs. 

_‘What name would you have put?’ He’d asked. ‘I don’t know…,’ You’d replied._

_‘Don’t you?’_

How could you have been so blind? Have you honestly had the exact same man in front of you all this time and not known? It’s no wonder you can’t solve these cases, you’re a complete blithering imbecile. You can’t see what is right in front of you - not even when it’s being handed to you on a platter.

How many times did he try to tell you? How many times did _you_ try to tell you? The deja vu when he’d smirk. The gnawing in your chest when he looked into your eyes. Were you willfully ignoring all the signs?

 _Bruce is Batman._

Pressing one hand to your stomach and one to your chest, as if this will keep you from imploding, you move your eyes from his hand, up his broad shoulders, and lock directly onto his. 

Deep indigo. 

It’s the only confirmation you need. 

You know and he knows that you do. 

The forcefield of energy is up between you, the one that came up in the bar, where everything and everyone that isn’t the two of you is drowned out. 

Ron is fussing with Bruce’s hand and forearm, but neither of you notice. Bruce’s expression is so intense it raises your heart rate a few beats. His chest is heaving and you don’t know it’s with relief or panic, but you’re too stunned to care.

As the shock of the realization starts to wane, the true ramifications start to seep in. You didn’t think it would be possible to be even more humiliated, but when you think of how he must’ve been exploiting your obvious crush on him to get more information on the cases, your eyes start to burn with hot, embarrassed tears. 

You snap your jaw shut, snapping yourself out of the forefield while you’re at it, and while swiping the tears off your cheeks, you turn again to leave. Bruce Wayne doesn’t deserve your tears. He doesn’t get to see you cry. Not now. Not ever. 

But you’re not sure you can hold your tears back, so you need to leave, and you need to leave now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg. 
> 
> don't come at me for the music in the montage, if you cannot abide my (admittedly somewhat trash) confidence mix, you can pretend they're different songs. 
> 
> also, I almost never write detailed descriptions of a dress in reader inserts bc when I'm reading a reader insert it often takes me out of it thinking about how much I'd never wear something like that. SO if this is the case, just use that imagination of yours to put on what you'd like to wear to make you feel like a queen. *shrugs* 
> 
> I love you all and your lovely words encouragement are making me want to spend my whole break in a hole writing this fic because I'm so excited to get to the _goooooooooooood_ stuff (in my opinion). 
> 
> <3<3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He who does not trust enough, will not be trusted._
> 
> \- Lao Tzu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> **draaaaaama** , monologues, gratuitous adjectives, analogies, and metaphors, seriously though there's so much drama, i'm not lying, like over-the-top you will 100% roll your eyes (but hopefully also deep down inside feel butterflies) type drama

Anyone who knows your mom knows that she loves fairytales, specifically romantic ones, the ones with a prince and princess and a happy ever after. The room you had from birth to age ten was princess-themed, complete with a gauzy conical canopy that swept over the head of your bed. 

To her dismay, by the time you were eight, it was evident that you were not on the same page as her. It's not that you were against pretty dresses and prince charming. You'd just rather play Clue than have tea parties and read _Nancy Drew_ and _Harriet the Spy_ instead of watching _Sleeping Beauty_. 

Where she preferred the drama of a moonlit kiss after a romantic monologue, you were drawn to the drama of a murder mystery. 

You wonder what she'd think of you fleeing a ballroom in a gown with tears streaming down your face after a dramatic reveal. Would she gasp when you trip on a rug and fall to your knees? Would she press a hand to her heart when you immediately pick yourself right back up, ignoring the pain in your ankle and stinging on your knee from your urgency to get out? Would she suffer the impolite way you speak to the attending at the coat check in the name of drama? 

When you step out of the Royal Hotel, it's raining, and you huff out a laugh because, of _course_ it's raining. Even though you weren't invested in the brand of drama your mom loved, you'd witnessed enough to know the drill. 

You're not sure if it's this awareness of how cliche the last few moments of your life have been. Or if it's the freezing rain hitting your face, jolting you out of your trance. Or if it's merely the knowledge that Bruce Wayne isn't going to let you just leave. That any moment now, he'll be running out the doors after you, and if he doesn't do that, he'll be at your apartment when you get home. 

Whatever the reason, you stop. 

You halt on the sidewalk right outside of the entrance to the Royal Hotel. Then you tilt your head back in surrender, letting the icy drops fall on your blazing skin and wash away your tears. Letting the bitter cold enfold you and embracing the numbness it offers. 

Maybe it's the heat from his body, or that somehow the energy (that you'd clearly imagined existed) between you is still lingering inside of you. Either way, you can sense him next to you without opening your eyes. 

He says your name, a ragged, repentant, anguished edge lacing his voice, and you hug yourself around your waist. 

"I'm not going to tell anyone who you really are if that's what you're afraid of." While you speak, cool raindrops sneak into your mouth and fall to the back of your throat. 

"Can we talk?" 

Hugging yourself tighter, you open your eyes and look down at his hand, the one that gave him away. The rain has mingled with the blood, making it look as if a whole, branching river system of dirty, red water were running down his hand and falling off his fingers. 

"Isn't that what we're doing?" 

Bruce latches onto your own forearm, peeling it away from your body. His grip is firm, its message clear: _I'm not letting go_. In glaring contrast, he steps forward and brushes your cheekbone with the knuckles of his other hand so tenderly that your breath catches in your throat. It takes every last particle of dignity you have left to not lean into his melting touch. 

"For the love of God, Quince. Would you look at me?" 

You obey. 

His expression is one you haven't seen before. He peers down at you, lashes heavy with tiny drops of rain on them, like dew on blades of grass. There's a half-moon crease between his eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth slope down ever so slightly. It's something close to worry but softer, more open. He's vulnerable. 

An aching in your chest you've become too familiar with over the past week returns like some sort of sadistic emotional acid reflux. One part of you, the lonely part, wants to wrap Bruce up in your arms and tell him everything will be okay, to beg him to still be your friend, to ask him to keep pretending. 

But, for better or for worse, your pride won't allow it. So instead, you swallow and repeat, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone your secret. I'll take it to my grave. I just want to make it to the end of March and then get the hell out of this dumpster fire of a city." 

Bruce doesn't appear to relax in the slightest. If anything, he gets more flustered. He looks out into the street and rubs the back of his neck. You're reminded of how Batman would try to make this exact same motion but couldn't because of his cowl. You will never stop beating yourself for not seeing it sooner. 

"You didn't have to pretend so hard, you know. You didn't have to trick me by acting like you liked me." You hate how sad your voice sounds, "I just wanted a friend, and I would've helped a friend." 

He tries to talk, starting and stopping, but can't seem to get the words out. 

What leftover affection you have for a man, who you're now convinced doesn't even exist, creates a feeling in you that resembles pity. Very carefully, as if you're approaching an open flame and you don't want to blister, you pat his arm and say, "You can stop worrying now, Bruce. You don't need to pretend anymore. I won't tell anyone who's under the mask." 

"I'm not worried that you'll tell anyone who I am. I'm...," trailing off, he transfers his grip to the top of both of your arms, leans in so that he's inches away from your face. With a desperate, growling, voice he says, "Don't you _get it_? The only time I _can_ take off my mask is with you." 

"Are you saying I'm the only one who knows who you are?" You're leaning away, he's dangerously close to you, and you refuse to allow him to seduce you with his lips again. 

This question just aggravates him further, and once again, he's starting and stopping and stammering. For someone fluent in at least eight languages that you know of, he's having a surprisingly difficult time elucidating his point. 

You're beginning to worry that you may have unintentionally cornered a feral tiger, making him feel trapped and exposed. This is why you speak your next statement carefully like you're a hostage negotiator, "It's okay, Bruce. Like I said: I. Won't. Tell. Anyone. I promise. You can trust me, remember?" 

Perhaps realizing his behavior is frightening you, Bruce lets go of your arms and backs away enough for you to catch your breath. 

"I'm wearing a mask when I'm Batman, and I'm wearing one when I'm Bruce Wayne. But when I'm with you…," his sigh is weighty, and he gazes out into traffic, the red and white lights accentuating shadows of his face. All at once, you notice the dark circles under his eyes. He looks so drained. Has he always looked this way? So burdened?

"There's something I want to show you, something I've never shown anyone before. Will you come with me?" He turns back to you, a bit of hope in his expression. 

You shake your head once. You've read your fair share of murder mysteries. You know better than to go off with a vigilante whose secret identity you've just discovered. He could definitely make you disappear if he wanted to. 

"You don't trust me." It's not a question, "That's fair." 

He rubs the back of his neck for a beat before his eyes widen like a lightbulb just went on above his head, "What if I could guarantee your safety?" 

"And how exactly are you planning to do that?" You arch a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"That pen I gave you, the one that has a syringe of ketamine. I'll let you keep it out the whole time." 

Again, you shake your head, "Even if I did have it, which I don't, I'm sure you have the… I don't know… _skills_ to take it from me before I can even blink my eyes if I were fixin' to use it on you." 

"You do have it." He nods to your handbag strapped across your body, "After you abandoned it, I put it in your bag for you." 

_Of course he did._

Following a brief search, you indeed locate the pen and hold it up as yet another piece of evidence that detective work of any kind is, unfortunately, not your calling. Because after you'd left the pen on the counter next to Big Tuna's bowl, you had more or less forgotten about it, not clocking its absence after that. 

"You never were any good at boundaries." Since the comment was directed toward Batman, it feels unnatural uttering it to Bruce. It would take time to get used to consolidating both people into one, time you didn't intend to spend with either of the man's personas. 

"This doesn't change anything," you remind him, "you could still definitely knock this out of my hands." 

"You're probably right," he concedes but continues, "but you already know I can get into your house and have been tracking you. If I wanted to do something, I wouldn't have to lure you with me now." 

"Jeez. Have you always been so smooth?" You deadpan and immediately chastise yourself when his glorious smirk reappears. 

This is because, along with his smirk, the sparks in your stomach threaten to reignite. You hadn't meant to banter with him. You really hadn't. It was just so... _easy_ with him, like falling back into a bad habit without even realizing it. 

Taking a cue from you, Bruce's smirk falls, and he asks, "Do you really not trust me to not hurt you?" 

He looks a little wounded when you don't answer and instead chew the inside of your lip. You want to trust Bruce. You want it more than anything you can think of at the moment. But the truth is, you don't think you know Bruce. He's too good of an actor, too charming. 

"Come with me," his voice is pleading, "and if you still don't like what I have to say and if you still don't trust me, I'll leave you alone. You'll never have to see my face again." 

_Good!_ Your brain nods haughtily, but your stupid, stupid, ignorant heart stutters at the thought of never seeing Bruce Wayne's face again. Before you even realize what's happening, you're nodding in agreement. 

.  
.  
.

You're one hundred percent about to get murdered.

And there's pretty much no one to blame except yourself. You agreed to go with someone who a) definitely has the resources to get away with murder and b) has an excellent motive for wanting you dead. Neither of these points was unclear to you when you agreed to go. 

Bruce Wayne leads you into a dirty, deserted alley outside of the Opera House a few blocks away from the Royal Hotel. You wonder if you should beg him to let them find your body so that your parents know. Speaking of your parents, you're regretting ignoring your mom's calls for the past week and a half. And resolve that if by some miracle you're able to make it out of here alive, you'll answer every single one of her calls. 

It's incredible to you that such filth can exist right up against one of the most beautiful buildings in the city. Gazing up at the Opera House, you can only see the very top of the dome from here. It's where you met Bruce on New Year's Eve. How poetic of him to kill you where you met. 

He slows near one of the Opera House's side exits, looking around up and down the alley as if he's searching for something. Then, he stops and declares, "This is it." 

You take a deep breath in and are about to start pleading for your life, but before you can, he stops you in your tracks by stating, "This is where my parents were killed." 

Something in the tone of his voice has your panic receding into the shadows. Not leaving altogether, more like being put on standby. 

"I never knew your parents were murdered...," you whisper, adding it to the growing list of _Things I Didn't Know About Bruce Wayne._

He has that crease in his brow that you've noticed he gets when he's worried or concentrating hard about something. You wonder if his mask hadn't hidden it before if you'd have realized who he was sooner. Probably not. Maybe you're just one of those people who don't see things they don't want to until they absolutely must. But perhaps most people are one of those people.

Now he's the one taking a deep breath. When he continues, his voice is unsteady, "I was eight years old, my parents took me to see _The Mark of Zorro_ here," he nods toward the Opera House, "and I got scared. They took me out of the show, coming out of this side door, to give me a minute, so I could calm down…," 

From the way Bruce has to look down at his feet and take another shaky breath before continuing, you get the impression he doesn't tell this story very often. Or ever. 

"There was a man with a gun. He told my parents to hand over their wallets. They did without hesitation. Then he told my mother to take off her necklace. It was an antique pearl necklace that had been handed down in her family for generations. It was irreplaceable. My father tried to explain this, tried to diffuse the situation…," there's another pause for him to collect himself. 

You've never listened to anything so intently in your entire life. You're afraid to breathe lest you miss a word. 

"He shot them both." 

Though you had an inkling that this is how his story would end, he'd told you at the beginning after all, you still bring your hand to your lips to stifle your gasp. 

Bruce locks his eyes onto yours now, beginning to move toward you. As he does so, he continues, "Joe Chill, the man who was convicted of murdering my parents, he thought he spared me. But he didn't. Not entirely. Part of me died that day. The part of me that didn't have to hide behind the mask of Bruce Wayne or, later, Batman, that part of me died right here in this same alley along with my parents." 

At this point, he's right in front of you, "At least that's what I believed…," he looks down, takes your hands in his, "...until I met you." 

When he looks back into your eyes, you're paralyzed by what you see there. 

If you'd thought him vulnerable before, it was nothing compared to how he is in this moment. Like he's cut through his own sternum, cracked open his chest, and sliced open all the layers of his pericardium for you to see his heart beating. He's trusting you with his story. He's _choosing_ to trust you with his story.

"It wasn't until I'd met you that I understood that that part of me wasn't dead. It was just lying in wait. Waiting for someone to show it that there are still people who want, more than anything, to fight the good fight. Waiting for someone to teach me how to smile a real smile again, to laugh a real laugh again." 

With one of his hands, he holds your hand to his chest, right where you'd be able to feel his heart beating if all his layers weren't in the way. With the other, he drops your hand to gingerly push a strand of your damp hair behind your ear, and although you're no longer able to feel the cold, you shiver. 

"It was waiting for someone worth risking the pain that comes with genuine, authentic affection for. That part of me was waiting for _you._ " 

For the second time in less than twenty minutes, you wonder what your mother would think about this moment. Would she have seen this grand romantic gesture coming? When you'd walked into this alley, your expectations were that you wouldn't come out alive. Yet here you are, gazing up into the eyes of a man who's making your blood rush and your lungs ache for want of air. This man makes you _want_ more than anyone ever has. You've never felt more alive. And for the first time, you think you might understand your mother’s devotion to fairy tales. 

As Bruce stoops to you, time slows, and all of your senses become consumed by him. 

In the alley, with the buildings on either side, the rainfall has become a mere drizzle. Yet you see every single drop that falls on his lips and lashes. You see the way they glisten and flicker from the light of passing cars beyond and how they roll down the sloping angles of his face. You feel the heat of his breath on your mouth and of his palm on your cheek. When you grab a handful of his coat at his side for stability, you feel the concrete strength of his body underneath. 

The sounds of distant sirens, of the sloshing of rain under tires, they're smothered by the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ear. And the smells of the city, of cigarette smoke, exhaust, and fermented decay, they are drowned out by the scent of Bruce. The smell you'd noticed on the roof of the Opera House on New Year's Eve. Clean and fresh, like dewy grass, but also grounded, like salt and like earth. 

When his lips finally meet yours, you taste. This time he doesn't taste like champagne, and he doesn't taste like he did at Dulaman. 

This time he tastes like water and mint. This time he tastes like manna from heaven like you've been wandering the desert for forty days, and you've come to the land of milk and honey. He tastes like he's tattooing his name on your heart and putting down roots in your long-term memory. 

Bruce tastes like he's crossing a boundary that he can't come back from now. But he never was really good at boundaries, was he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so obviously i leaned in super hard on the whole angsty, emo, melodramatic Bruce Wayne in this chapter. not gonna lie, it was super fun to write. hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. 
> 
> for the record:  
> 10/10 do not recommend falling for a guy with as many red flags as Bruce Wayne irl. and boundaries are important.  
> BUT this is where we can pretend! 
> 
> and as always, you are all the best!! showing up here and taking the time to voice your support is just sending me. thank you so much! 
> 
> <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No-one can offer you more_  
>  You know what I mean  
> Have your eyes really seen? 
> 
> \- "Modern Love" David Bowie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: 
> 
> practically zero plot progression, lots of fluff and just fun sexy stuff (not smut yet) bc it's the last day of my spring break and I wanted to, again: so much fluff

Bruce's driver and car are waiting outside the alley when he leads you out. He holds the door open and gestures for you to get inside. 

Perhaps it was presumptuous of him, but there seemed to be no need for discussion that you would stay together. You had no idea where you were going and no expectations for what would happen. All you know is that parting ways with Bruce at this juncture would be absurd. You still have so many questions, so much to talk about. 

Everything is so fresh and new, and like many fresh, new things - plants, people, wounds - it needs to be tended to at first. 

While you settle into your seat, Bruce gives his driver instructions to take you both to Wayne Manor. Externally you're sitting prim and proper, hands clasped on your lap, but on the inside, you're an inferno. You press your hot forehead against the cool window, too afraid to even look in his direction lest you combust. 

It's difficult for you to describe how you're feeling at this moment. You've had your fair share of reciprocated crushes, but this is... it's next level. 

The summer before your freshman year of high school, you hit the phase of adolescence that is seldom talked about in the context of the female sex. The phase of puberty where your underdeveloped frontal cortex is bombarded with animal hormones. Hormones that have one aim: sex. The phase of passionate, irrational attraction, constant agitation, and fixation. The phase of obsession. 

When this phase hit you, it wasn't a gradual onset. One moment you were hopping the fence at the Kent family's farm to take the shortcut to the lake. The next, you're rendered utterly speechless by the sight of the Kent's son Clark lifting a bale of hay sans shirt. 

Until this moment, you'd barely thought twice about Clark Kent. Since he was a senior in high school at the time, he'd seemed too old, too grown up. While he wasn't bad-looking, he wasn't exactly known for being the town dreamboat either. For one, he wasn't involved in any sports, a prerequisite to being a heartthrob in small towns. But he was also quiet and aloof. 

All it took was that one glimpse of his muscles, and it was like you'd been hit by a bolt of hormonal lightning. You became addicted to the little _zings_ that would shoot through your body every time you saw him. Since your frontal lobe was still immature, you felt out of control. 

So you got creepy. You spent every single day that summer taking the shortcut through the Kent's farm, hoping to get a glimpse of Clark. You had pretend conversations with him in your mirror at night after brushing your teeth. You'd spend hours sunbathing on the beach of the lake while constructing elaborate daydreams about him. 

Like many teenage obsessions, your obsession with Clark Kent eventually petered out, but your obsession phase wasn't over.

After him, there was a brief Orlando Bloom as Will Turner phase. You spent a good six months watching _Pirates of the Caribbean_ on repeat and wrote short stories where the two of you solved murders on the high seas. Then there was the Paul Holes phase when you started reading up on The Golden State Killer investigations. 

The point is, throughout your journey into full brain maturity, you'd had growing pains. These growing pains resulted from your higher-order thinking faculties becoming more developed and trying to assert their dominance over your base instincts. However, eventually, they _did_ assert their firm dominance… or at least you thought they did. 

During the kiss in the alley, Bruce had done something to you. Either he'd revved up this obsessive infatuation part of your brain so much that it was threatening to take over, or he'd turned down your frontal cortex's control. Maybe he'd done both. 

All you know is that you're feeling a little obsessed. And as an adult, you've never felt this way. This wild, irrational, electric feeling of attraction and you're struggling to regain your composure. 

You close your eyes and take deep breaths, reminding yourself that you are a grown woman who has control of her body. But then Bruce says your name, and you look across the car to where he's sitting. The way he's looking at you, it makes your whole body ignite. 

Your clothes feel too tight, and the tiny gap between the two of you seems absurd. It seems ridiculous that you aren't touching him, that you're not continually feeling his skin beneath your fingers. So you unbuckle your seatbelt and slide to him. 

As a medical examiner, you've had enough gruesome motor vehicle fatalities on your table to make you a firm seat belt wearer. It's a rule you've never broken until now.

Bruce appears just as eager as you, meeting you in the middle, his lips clashing with yours. This is no slow motion, tender kiss. It's raw and messy and imperfect. 

But it's also consuming and passionate and… exquisite. 

With a strong hand at the base of your scalp, Bruce tilts your head back, giving him further access to explore your mouth with his tongue. You moan your approval, and he reciprocates with a rumble from his throat. You plunge your hands beneath the lapels of his coat, wanting to feel his chest beneath your fingers. But when you contact his suit coat, you peel away to make a sound of frustration. 

" _Too many coats._ " That is all you can manage. At this, he huffs a laugh and leans away to take it off. 

As you pull back and watch him remove not only his overcoat but his suit coat and loosen his tie, your mature brain tries to sneak in. 

_How far will this go?_ You don't know, you haven't thought about it. 

_What about the driver?_ What driver? Who cares about the driver? 

_Shouldn't you, you know, talk about all the things you want to talk about with him?_ Probably, but you can't possibly speak when your mouth is about to be busy tasting every single inch of Bruce Wayne's flesh. Which is what has become your number one priority. 

When his hands reach for you again, your greedy, senseless body goes full spider monkey, and by the time your lips rejoin, you're straddling his lap. You're cupping his face in your palms and exploring his mouth, enjoying the control the height advantage has given you. From the mouthwatering, tortured groans coming from Bruce, you can tell you're not the only one enjoying yourself. 

Bruce slides his mouth from yours, kissing a line from your jaw to your neck. You're both gasping for air. Every heaving inhale you take, your chests brush against each other, causing your nipples to pinch in response, even from beneath your coat and dress.

When he slides his tongue down your neck, the pulsing that's been building between your thighs demands attention. You circle your hips against him, feeling him through his pants, eliciting a feral snarl from him, which he contains by clamping down on your neck with his teeth. 

You shudder and grind against him harder. He seizes your hips and facilitates the motion himself. In response, you reach down and grip his forearms not only to keep them there but to signal your approval. 

And this is when you feel a definite pop beneath your hand, a sensation that rips you out of your lust-driven hypnosis. As quickly as you'd climbed onto him, you jump off.

"What?" He asks in a breathless voice like he's just finished a sprint, "What's wrong?" 

It only takes a glance at his sleeve to realize what happened. The old, brown, dried blood from when Ron had popped a stitch at the Royal Hotel is being replaced by a new, steadily growing patch of red blood. 

You point to his arm and, in a stern voice, remind him, "I told you to go and see a doctor for that." 

"I already did see a doctor for it. _Remember?_ " His playful tone and how he tugs you toward him suggest that he's still deep in sexy land. 

"I meant a doctor who could take these out and give you _real_ stitches." After shaking your head and batting away his impatient hands, you manage to remove his cufflinks and roll up his sleeve. There you see that not one, not two, but _six_ of the sutures are popped open. "These sutures are too inflexible for a living person, and I've put them in too tight. It's why they keep popping." 

"Would you be able to replace them?" 

Chewing the inside of your lip, you think about it. All while Bruce is leaning in and nuzzling your neck, trying his best to distract you anew. 

"Maybe I could if I had the supplies, but I don't. We don't have supplies for the living at the OCME."

"I have them." 

You're trying not to get sidetracked by the brushing of his lips against your throat while he speaks. 

"I'd need to watch some videos to refresh my memory on how to do regular stitches. Then maybe I'd be able to do a halfway decent job. Though nowhere near the level of care you'd get with a physician who is practiced at -," 

You stop short. Inhaling sharply as Bruce's palm finds the slit of your dress. He starts to caress your bare thigh, effectively switching your brain from problem-solving mode to too-many-coats mode at the speed of light. 

"You've been killing me with this dress all night, Quince." He groans before taking your earlobe between his teeth. 

As he leans against you to push you, so you're laying back against the seat, you grip handfuls of hair to bring him with you. Your eyes flutter closed as he teasingly slides his hand from your thigh to your calf and back up again. As he gets higher and higher with each circuit, you allow your body to become needier and needier, letting yourself go. 

But then, just as abruptly as you had moments before, he stops and sits up. And just as he had, you're breathlessly asking, "What's wrong?" while propping yourself up on your elbows. 

Bruce is looking down at your knee draped over his lap, where his hand was not moments before. He has a worried furrow on his brow. 

"What's this?" 

Now you're sitting up to see a pretty nasty abrasion on your swollen knee, and you remember your fall. With the nonstop sequence of dramatic events unfolding all night long, you'd completely forgotten about your trip and fall on the rug outside the Royal Hotel ballroom. But from the evident inflammation, your body hadn't. 

"I tripped." You answer, waving a hand as if you're hoping to wave away his concern. It doesn't work. He starts to examine the rest of your leg. 

"It's just a rug burn, Bruce." The helpless frustration so evident in your voice makes you sound like a spoiled teen, and you're tugging at his arm, trying to no avail to get back to where you were.

"You've sprained your ankle too." He speaks the words as if he's just discovered you're suffering from a rare disease instead of common trauma-induced joint inflammation. 

Feeling sufficiently blue-balled, you cross your arms over yourself and blow out a melodramatic exhale as he continues to fret over you. He repositions you so that you're sitting up against the door, and then as tenderly as if he were handling a bomb, he picks up your foot and puts it in your lap. 

Watching him repeatedly try to undo the impossible tiny buckle of your shoe, you begin to soften. The past few moments of passion in the backseat of the car have validated that the physical energy between you and Bruce wasn't made up. You _felt_ proof that he wants you as much as you want him. 

But this... 

The most powerful man in Gotham fretting over your swollen ankle, struggling to undo the dainty buckles of your silly shoes. This is proof that the _care_ he feels for you wasn't imagined. 

It makes your chest ache, but in the most magnificent possible way. 

.  
.  
.

_Over, "hold," loop, pull. Over, "hold," loop, pull._

Doing a "blanket stitch" or a continuous interlocking stitch is a whole new rhythm for you, and it requires an assistant. Luckily, from the numerous scars you've caught glimpses of when Bruce removed his shirt, this isn't his first rodeo. He makes an excellent assistant, holding the loops for you before you even ask. 

Wayne Manor is about a twenty-minute drive outside of the city. While you'd like to report you were in complete awe with your face pressed against the window as the car drove up to the entrance, the truth is you've been here before. 

When you'd moved to Gotham, your parents had driven what little belongings you had in their truck up with you. After helping you get moved in, your mom had insisted you do all the touristy things with her before she left. This included a guided tour of the Wayne Manor property. 

Most people on the tour had asked questions such as, "How many gardeners does it take to maintain these elaborate regency-style gardens and hedges?" or, "Are these the original iron balusters on the staircase, or are they replicas?" 

Much to your utter humiliation, your mother had asked, "Is Mr. Wayne single?" Then, when the tour guide had responded with a confused sounding, "I think so…," she'd nudged you in a very indiscreet fashion. As if your sole purpose of moving to Gotham had been to seduce the owner of this grand house. 

Well… here you were. Your mother would screech with delight to see you in the master bathroom of Wayne Manor. A shirtless Bruce Wayne sitting on the slate grey countertop so close to you that you could feel the heat radiating off of his body. 

After getting out of the car and firmly denying Bruce's multiple requests to carry you, you were both greeted at the door by a man you recognized. The older British man who occasionally acted as Bruce's driver. Alfred. You liked Alfred because he seemed to be an unusual combination of both no-nonsense authoritarian and soft-hearted grandfather. 

Alfred's thick grey eyebrows lifted in surprise at the sight of you. With one glance in Bruce's direction, Alfred nodded once and carefully composed his face into a mask of professionalism. But you think you see a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth as he greets you and welcomes you in. 

Before leading you up to his suite, Bruce told Alfred you required the "surgical supplies up in the master suite." From the way Alfred didn't miss a beat, you wondered if this was a common occurrence in Wayne Manor. 

The master suite of Wayne Manor looks nothing like the small portion of the interior you'd been allowed a glimpse of on your tour. Bruce led you through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The master bedroom retains the bones of the rest of the house's gothic architecture without the accompanying style. 

While it has the dark stained oak floor, the vaulted ceilings, the rugs are modern, and slate gray instead of ornate luxurious Persian. Rather than the roman classical paneled walls being papered in rich gem and gold damask, they are crisp white. The large diamond iron patterned windows are framed by linen drapes in the same gray as the rugs instead of the massive, sweeping velvet of the rest of the house. Also, the ornate, crystal, baroque chandeliers that light most of the rooms you'd previously seen have been replaced with a modern, geometric iron chandelier. 

It was a perfect mix of modern and classic, preparing you for the transition into the master bathroom, which was full-blown modern luxury at its finest. 

The whole bathroom, which was larger than your entire kitchen, dining nook, and living room combined, was a palate of grey and white. It has sterile grey marble countertops, and all the plumbing has matte nickel hardware. There's a poured concrete, half-sphere bathtub with a waterfall faucet next to a shower so huge it doubles as a greenhouse with a line of potted ferns to one side. 

The 'surgical supplies' that Alfred brought you were legit. As in top-shelf silk sutures, hooks, and needles of all sizes and varieties, biodegradable collagen sutures, pliers, scalpels, the whole nine yards. And after you picked out what you needed, you got to work. 

Before pulling out the rest of your shoddily executed knots from two days before, you tell Bruce to take off his shirt and sit on the countertop. While he does so, you do your best to keep your head in professional mode. It wouldn't do to get distracted by the way his well-defined pectoral muscles pull at his sternum while sewing him closed. You could accidentally poke an artery or sever his damaged nerve completely. But it's difficult, especially when you notice his body is far from perfect, peppered with scars and battle wounds that you're dying to ask about. 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

"Who usually does this for you?" You note clear evidence of sutures on several of his newer injuries. 

"It depends. I do it sometimes, but most of the time, it's Alfred. He was a medic during World War II." Then Bruce's voice turns low and flirty, "And sometimes, if I'm _really_ lucky, a beautiful forensic medical examiner does it." 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

You ignore this. Not because you want to, but because you need to if you're going to get this done correctly, "So does Alfred know then? You know… who you are?" 

Though your focus is entirely on pulling the skin of his forearm together, you see him nod from your periphery. 

"How many people know?" 

"Other than you and Alfred, there's only two who know that I'm aware of; my business manager Lucius Fox and Commissioner Gordon." 

"Are you -," you trail off, pretending to be focused on the stitch while trying to think of the word you want to use here. What exactly do you want to ask? 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

"Does it bother you that I know?" As soon as the question is out of your mouth, you feel your cheeks get hot. You bite your lip to keep from babbling to distract him. 

With his free hand, he runs a finger along your clavicle while murmuring a cryptic, “Not as much as it probably should…," 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

"Hold still." You command even though what you really want to say is, _Don't stop._

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

There's a question, rather several questions, you desperately want him to answer, but you're not sure how to ask them, so you start with, "Why me?"

"What do you mean?" 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

"Why and when did you single me out as someone you were… interested in working with?" 

He responds, "You were the only one who saw them." 

Then he elaborates, "I have a system that is hacked into the OCME Gotham database. It tracks patterns of unexplained deaths, but since my skills in forensic autopsy are… lacking, the system can only find patterns based on what the medical examiners put in their charts. In other words, the system is only as good as the examiners. You see, you were the only examiner who put the word 'unexplained' as part of the official cause of death on the victims' death certificates. The other examiners put only 'SCD via aortic dissection,' so my system didn't clock it."

Your hands stop mid-pull, and you look up at him, "So, you're telling me that you weren't even aware there was a pattern until I started pointing it out?" 

"That's what I'm telling you." He's so close you can see the details of his irises, the threads of grey and deep navy. You wonder once again if you'd have figured it out sooner had you not avoided eye-contact with Batman so much.

_Concentrate._ You swallow and get back to the stitches. 

"The deaths and you weren't even on my radar until McFaden was teasing you about it on New Year's Eve in front of Gordon, and Gordon said something to me about it." 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull._

You think back to that night. McFaden had been giving you a hard time about the cases and had asked the commissioner, _'Whaddya think, Gordon? Would the girl make for a good detective?'_ shortly before Bruce had come over to shake Gordon's hand. 

After that is when you kissed Bruce on the rooftop. 

"So… the kiss?" You're not even sure what you're trying to ask here, but Bruce answers anyway. 

"That had nothing to do with the deaths or your interpretation of them or my trying to get information." 

There's a beat of silence before you ask, "Then what did it have to do with?" 

"A silly tradition giving me the excuse to kiss a beautiful woman who I knew was too smart to let me otherwise. And a bottle of Dom giving me the courage to do it." 

The idea of billionaire bachelor Bruce Versace Model Wayne, who just so happens to moonlight as a kickass vigilante, needing the courage to do _anything_ , is hilarious. So you chuckle and shake your head. 

"What about the other one?" 

"The one at the pub?" 

You nod. 

Bruce blows out a weighty exhale and answers, "It's true. I could tell you had a crush on me, and initially, I figured I could use it to my advantage. To use it as an excuse to get into your office and into your brain a bit." 

You bite your lip again to keep from backpedaling into a more _comfortable_ conversation. 

What had Mari said? ' _Push yourself out of your comfort zone'_? She'd be delighted if she could see you now. In your lingerie gown, rain-melted makeup and hair, barefoot while using unfamiliar stitches to stitch up Bruce Wayne while talking about how he was using you. 

"But that day when I picked you up from the OCME before we went to get street tacos, you said that stuff about wanting a friend, about being lonely, and something came over me. For reasons that you now understand, I've never been able to have very many friends. Since you said you were leaving…," when you glance up at him, you see that he's now the one looking down, chewing his lip, "I thought I might've found a loophole. I thought I could let myself have you as a friend, just for a while." 

_Over, "hold," loop, pull. Over, "hold," loop, pull._

"But I found out quickly how wrong I was." 

The intensity of this statement has your fingers trembling as you tie off the sutures and clip the strings. 

Bruce traces the same line of your clavicle that he did before. From your shoulder to your neck and up to brush some hair behind your ear. 

You suck in a breath and straighten your shoulders, hugging your waist, "What do you mean?" 

"It wasn't long before I realized that being your friend wasn't going to be enough for me. I haven't had friends for a while, but I don't think you're supposed to stay awake thinking about the sound of your friend's laugh…," 

He runs his thumb along your jaw and stretches it to trace the edge of your bottom lip, "... or the shape of their lips…," 

Your knees feel unsteady, and you hold onto his waist for support. You perceive the threads of his firm muscles moving beneath his skin as he leans to you, gripping your chin between his thumb and pointer finger to angle your face to his as he does. 

The next words are so low, you feel them more than hear them. He's so close to you. He practically speaks them directly into your mouth. Not that you mind, you almost breathe them in. 

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think your _friend_ should spend countless moments of his day imagining what it would be like to feel your skin against his. Or what it would be like to wake up next to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in some universes it's canon that Gordon knows and in some he doesn't. same with Fox. they both know in my made up non-canonical version. 
> 
> also, there's NOT going to be a love triangle with Clark Kent, I just threw that in there for fun bc they're both from Smallville. 
> 
> the chapters are going to be slowing again from here on out. but lets keep our fingers crossed for weekly.   
> you're honestly the best fans of my fanfic ever and I adore you all and all your comments. 
> 
> <3 <3


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